


The Inferno of Hellsman

by SunnyJune



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Bottom Kim Jongin | Kai, Christianity, Extramarital Affairs, Gore, Hell, Knights - Freeform, Love, M/M, Porn With Plot, Prince Kim Jongin | Kai, Prince Oh Sehun, Religion, Rimming, Threesome, Top Park Chanyeol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2020-07-26 02:14:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 54,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20036206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunnyJune/pseuds/SunnyJune
Summary: Kim Jongin, Prince of the God-fearing kingdom of Hailmån, becomes the youngest heir to the thrown after the passing of his father. The Hailmånish, on the brink of war and conquest, are all but ready until the "Epic of Man" begins to unravel, warranting an arduous journey down to Hell; a banishment into the inferno. He leads his life selflessly on Earth, and will continue to uphold such virtues in the face of the Hellsman, whom of which is hellbent on acquiring an audience in front of Satan. Meanwhile, he falls in love with a knight from the west, a certain Aetherian prince courts him, he must ascertain the origin of man, grow his humble kingdom, and confront a cruel God that no longer answers the prayers of his people.He need not resist, only to hand himself over.Act 1: CompleteAct 2: In ProgressAct 3: ???





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Aloha bebe’s, I’m back with another one. If you came here from PC;PW, welcome back! If you’re new, feel free to check out some of my old stuff. 
> 
> I wanted to write some exposition before we get to the meat and bones of the story, so let’s get this bread. The chapters are short this time around, so I don’t really know how many chapters this will be. 
> 
> See you in the next chapter, 
> 
> SunnyJune

##  CHAPTER I: Weeping Dusk

The world as it was once known was merely a shadow to today’s men. Who they were, why they were, and how they came to be would devolve into an evasive enigma that no amount of deduction could ever explain. 

The fall of purpose was the fall of man. 

Hell rose when summer fell. 

— 

Living lavishly in the palace, the only son to the infamous widower king, was a young man by the name of Kim Jongin. He had just been freshly initiated into adulthood and was often seen by the townspeople atop his valiant steed: a chocolate-coated specimen with a heroic build and a long, flowing mane. The prince, aware that he would soon take the throne due to his father's old age and declining health, scoped the kingdom enthusiastically. Aware that all that can be seen from the castle’s watchtower was to be his instilled in him a sense of duty. The fact that anything beyond was to be conquered introduced him to the machinations of war, peace, and balance. Malevolence and benevolence teetered dangerously upon his minds weighing balance. 

The townspeople swooned over their beloved prince, as he came to visit them as a silent trespasser. He was an unmistakable beauty, so handsome therein that the other kingdomsof the east and even warring villages requested his presence at their banquets, despite not yet having the power of his father. As royalty, he was easily identified by the spotless white and gold tunics he wore, of which the townspeople were prohibited to dress in, limited to the tones of the earth and its natural palette. Other than the magnificent cape that was draped over his shoulders, or the pure-steel sword that he kept sheathed by his waist, the townspeople related him dearly to their everyday lives. Though he seldom spoke, and though no one mustered the strength to speak to the almighty man amongst them, he ate at their markets, played with their animals, and smiled fondly at the children who ran to meet the horse he rode and, ironically, not him. He requested nothing, yet his presence requested all. 

Despite being a few years shy of acquiring the throne, Jongin seethed with power. Within the streets of Hailmån, in hushed tones upon varying degrees, he was fabled to wield powers bestowed by God himself. Though he had shown no liking toward justice nor a penchant for indomitable wrath, the people knew that, one day, he would lead their kingdom by way of an unstoppable force. To what, they knew not. Yet, these were all rumors, and Jongin was but an enigma to the average peasant living on the outskirts of their village. He did not weave his lifestyle with that of the village people, nor did he yearn to live amongst them. He walked with a lethargy that spoke, ‘Do not fear me, but do not cross me’. 

His father, however, was known to be an arrogant, recreant figurehead, whom of which had receded from glory upon the death of his wife. Though the people’s knowledge of the late queen could barely surpass that of her stunning portraits and the garden left in her name, it had become rumored that she died because the king was unable to protect her in the Last War. More rumors flew: that the king had fallen out of God’s favor, that the queen was unchaste, or that Satan had entered the palace. To this day, the king sat upon the throne with an empty stare to his eyes, frosted over as though they were made of stained glass, as the world outside of the castle continued to keep his name in their mouths; acidic, bitter, and vitriolic. 

If they had known that the loss of his mother and the absence of his father brought Jongin to sleepless nights, would they maybe reconsider the imperishable image that they paralleled to his demeanor? Had they known that he wiped his tears on his sleeve and slept late into the afternoon would they only then begin to realize that they never saw him in the early mornings? However, Jongin persisted amidst his incredible loneliness, and saw to it that the duties he would inherit were properly tended to. 

Every royal son in line for the thrown was required to find a prince or princess to replace the queen’s rank before the passing of the king, and the people predicted that Jongin perhaps had another two or three years. Though the king never left the castle, word from his servants had spread like gulls along the bay; he was all but alive and decaying in the glorified chair they called the throne. If his death were to come abruptly, the young prince would be made open to the first prince to make a suitable offer. Jongin found that 18, 19 - even 20 - was too young to marry. Regardless, he must follow the Royal Law and, therefore, he prepared to meet his betrothed any day with which a wealthy, powerful prince came to court him as his second-hand. 

Mysterious is how they defined the prince. Yet, within their definitions, they confined him to a set of words with which he might never escape. Even then, he was fine with this, as though he had inherited such sheer, unabridged apathy from his father. 

— 

“Prince Jongin,” the messenger called, bowing, “You have a message from a prince hailing from the Kingdom of Aetheria, known as Oh Sehun. May I read his letter to you?” 

“I can read it myself,” Jongin announced, having just entered the palace, holding his hand open for the messenger to slip the neatly-stamped envelope into. Evening had just fallen over the kingdom, yet the palace had already snuck into complete silence.

Behind the castle walls lay the palace, its gargantuan span was matched by its opulent design. Calacatta marble imported by the tons – directly from Italy – lined every inch of the palace. Its gold marbling would shine magnificently among the sunlight through stained glass panes. These masterpieces, that of which lined every hallway, depicted the “Epic of Man”; God’s generous creation. Eve’s birth, Jesus’ solemn sacrifice toward the Salvation of mankind, and so on and so forth. Beyond the stunning rooms and hallways lay beautiful gardens, fantastic marble sculptures of the disciples and previous late royalty, ballrooms, a music hall, and much more – yet the nature was what set the palace apart from other extravagant structures within other kingdoms. The kingdom of Hailmån acknowledged its connection with the Earth as its connection to God, therefore, the Earth was sacred. The late queen, who had devoted 40 years of her life from the ages of 15 to 55 to the gardens, had her very own laid at the center of the palace. It was seldom visited by other royalty and was maintained by the gardeners, yet it became open to all once a year on the queen’s birthday. 

“May I take your cape, Prince Jongin?” A handservant asked, curtsying politely, as that was all she had ever known. 

“Please do.” 

She untied the front lapels and pulled the cape off, folding it in her arms and heading toward the laundry. 

Jongin sat at his desk in his chamber, locking the door behind him. The letter was from Prince Sehun of Aetheria, a God-fearing kingdom that laid atop a staggering cliff side, supposedly above the waters that were once parted by Moses himself. If one thought that the Hailmånish palace was exquisite, theirs was so indulgent that it tip-toed around sin. That kingdom was the richest on that side of the world. While the Hailmånish were known to be humble and reserved, Aetherians were ostentatious, stunningly gorgeous, and privileged. Their people, marked by gorgeous, flowing hair and eyes like clear beaches, were said to have been gifted the image of angels, and were quite fond of gloating that tale. 

Despite their nature, Jongin had found himself head over heels for the looks of Prince Sehun. He was tall, strapping, and masculine, much like Prince Jongin, yet he had an ethereal glow to him that was a signature of his people. The Hailmånish were the people of the Earth, molded in the image of Adam, and the Aetherians were no less than blessed by the heavens. 

Prince Sehun had found himself fancying Jongin within a matter of seconds, as though one greeting at a private royal mixer were enough to spur his emotions. He loved the way Jongin’s skin would glow under the sunlight, whereas he must hide from its burning rays. He envied the pitch-black of the Hailmånish princes’ eyes and fell deep within them; lost, as he believed that the crystal eyes of the Aetherians were shallow and too easy to read. He chased Jongin for the thrill of it all as though he were an exotic animal and, while Jongin knew this, he wanted what was best for his kingdom. While he might have been the object of Prince Sehun’s desires and not much more, he was the only prince willing to marry and allocate into his kingdom as a secondary. With such wealth and power, Jongin felt that his refusal would equal the downfall of his humble kingdom, and he would not be the one to spoil centuries of a thriving civilization by placing his happiness over that of the masses. 

So, when Sehun sent him letters marked with his seal in a deep purple wax, he opened them in his quarters alone. He read the intoxicated ramblings of a man that wanted to ravage his body in unholy ways and, unable to contain the primal desire that his words awoke within him, Jongin fingered himself open, his eyes shut and his mouth agape as he prepared himself for the inevitable; his courtship with the prince of the almighty Aetherian kingdom. He felt further within himself, reaching for something unobtainable as he read the princes words to himself in the solitude of his room. His writing was intricate and obscene, as he detailed in every letter just how much he wanted to taste Jongin’s entrance on his tongue. 

“Prince Jongin?” 

He covered his lower half at the sound of knocking on his bedroom door, scrambling to jam the letter into his desk drawer while searching for his pants. He took a moment to calm himself, for he answered to no one, and proceeded to call out, 

“Who is it?” 

“It is the messenger.” 

“And what news do you have?” 

“It is about your father. He has fallen ill. No request has been made for your presence, but the head nurse suggests that you visit him to give a prayer.” 

Jongin sighed, allowing the messenger to run off to his other duties. His father had been falling ill every other week as though Death were desperately trying to claim his soul while Satan were forcing him to continue to suffer on Earth. This was hardly ‘news’, it was merely the reality of their lives as the last two royals within the palace. It was empty, Jongin was often away, and the king's isolation only made his sorrows burrow deep into his heart, where he lay susceptible to illness and the like. 

It had come to the point where Jongin had so badly wanted to be courted so that the prince of Aetheria may bring his family to mingle, and they all might live under the roof of his palace, bustling, lively, and free. A true family trading the place of a bastardized, motherless duo. 

— 

“Have you been praying for the king?” The head nurse asked, sitting politely beside the prince in the pews of the beautifully crafted church. 

“You mean my father?” Jongin joked, a cheap laugh that the head nurse had already heard millions of times before, “Of course I have. And I have no doubt that he will recover well. God always graces him with the strength he needs to persevere.” 

“And for that reason, I believe that you truly are a blessed prince.” The head nurse grinned, “Yet... The king – er, your father – is faltering more and more these days.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Your father. Perhaps it is his time to go.” 

From the lips of anyone else, such a statement would be treason. Yet, the head nurse knew many things on the basis of life, death, and balance, and Jongin accredited her expertise. Yet, he could not help but pray that his father would live another few years. He was not ready to wed, and would continue to search for a man outside of Aetheria that may meet his compromises. Though his father suffered by the hands of life, Jongin could not simply hand him over to the qualms of death. Not because he would overtly mourn his father, for he barely knew him, but because he was not ready to be inducted into society as the new king with a new secondary, whom of which pursued him for the exotic and natural beauty of the Hailmånish and nothing more. 

“I am not ready for my father to depart this Earth.” Jongin mumbled, gripping a small, silver cross in his palm. 

The two sat in the pews, the high ceiling looming over them, a few candles lighting the space as a large, golden cross looked over them at the very front of the church. As night began to fall, so did a light shower of rain. 

“On the basis of love, and liberty, and so on and so forth… Death is an inevitability. If your father is not rotting in his casket, he is rotting alive, and I am watching him.” The head nurses voice broke, yet she was an expert at maintaining her composure, “While I cannot force you to do anything, I would advise you to aim your prayers at the well-being and happiness of your father, and not just being alive.” 

Jongin nodded as the nurse stood, placing a warming hand on his shoulder. 

“I know that 18 is a young age to overtake the throne at. You know, your father became king when he was just short of double your age.” 

She strolled down the red-velvet carpeted walkway, reveling in each step as she worked her weary knees. Despite being so young, the work of a nurse would always remain taxing. 

“I know how it feels to face the fears of responsibility. Filling large shoes, that is. It will be difficulty and you may be the last royal of the Hailmån’s for a long time, but I hope that you will find the strength to see what is bigger than you; to see that your father suffers by way of living, and his people suffer in return. Though you roam their world, you do not live in the havoc that they endure within their village. Think about what is best for the greater good. It is all you can do. Selfishness to save yourself from all that causes your despair will end in, not only your demise, but the demise of all that lives beneath you. Consider these things.” 

The nurse padded away, shutting the large, heavy church doors behind her. 

As they shut, Jongin broke down, sobbing into his hands, the salty tears collecting in his palms and dripping down his wrists. Though he might pretend that he would not miss his father and feared for the future he must guide, he feared the loss of his father most. He was not yet a strong, diligent man. It was as though he were a boy one day, and a king-in-waiting the next. 

He did not want his father to die without having heard from his own mouth that he loved him. That was all Jongin could want from a father that would not speak. 

Every night, he mourned a mother that he remembered only as childish memoirs for nearly the last decade, and he hoped that, if his father did die by the hands of his prayers, that he would have died wishing the best for Jongin. Though he understood the blasphemous markers of his despair, he could not help but wonder what cruel God would place him into such a world. 

It was officially time for him to begin making preparations for the future. 

###### 

Links; 

Twitter: 

@JoonRainy | https://twitter.com/JoonRainy 

AFF: 

@RainyJoon | https://www.asianfanfics.com/profile/view/1143169 

Last Fic: 

Pastel Colors; Pure Wonders | https://www.asianfanfics.com/story/view/1037577/pastel-colors-pure-wonders [redux pending]


	2. Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bro I write these shits in like half an evening and then I spend days having to gut it for some kind of coherency. ANYWAY, that's why it's hella long (even though I said it wouldn't be lmao).
> 
> Enjoy!

#  CHAPTER II: Summer 

_ _

_“Love?” He drawled, cocking his head to one side as his voice gently settled into a low mumble, “I have not loved. But, I have fallen, indubitably and hopelessly.”_

  


—

Soon enough, the incessant showers of spring had ceased and summer peaked at its most mature hour. The sun gifted the Hailmånish people with bountiful harvests, blessed sunrises and sunsets, and a Godly glow over all. In just a few days, summer communion was due to begin and, in spite of such change, Jongin had still refused to relinquish the hope he held on behalf of his father. Every night, he quietly sidled into the church pews to pray and, after thoroughly considering the head nurses wise advice, he must wonder: if it were in his father’s best interest to meet his final rest, then why had God continued to keep him in the realm of the living? 

Regardless, the prince rose midday and prepared for his trip around the village. He did not always have the time or freedom to wander about without purpose but, when he could slip away from the melancholic confines of the palace under the guise of princely duties, he would justify the time as ‘well spent’. After all, a good prince ought to understand the livelihoods of the people. They were soon to be his, were they not? 

Upon the watchtower, the tallest point in the kingdom and his most favorite spot to loiter, Jongin savored gorgeous beams of sun that flared over the simple and humble kingdom he called ‘home’. The streets were being laden with poppy flower petals, a staple flora abundant throughout the forests and gardens of Hailmån. They provided a vibrant flash of deep red and their earthy smell wafted along the summer breeze. In his kingdom, poppies were a testament to their unassuming culture; able to grow within the most sterile of soils, drought-resilient, and not-so-easily trampled as the rose was. The Hailmånish people were unique in their existence as, unlike the other three nations, they had always remained whole. Hailmån was Hailmån, no matter the century, and it had watched everyone else fragment and shatter only to attempt to reunite once more. This was their sacrifice; strong emotion and personal want became the dutiful discipline of give-and-take, the machinations of balance and peace that allowed all to live collectively in peace. Aetheria may feel so dignified, intelligent, and capable, but their egos would build barriers around simple human connection. Thusly, each kingdom cracked apart like veins from an artery; unable to concede for the sake of being right. Meanwhile, though attempting to conquer all beneath a single identity, the strength of Belmesh would cloud its judgment – with such a powerful tool, why must one partake in the trivial subtleties of speech? Even now, the indignant child born of war and hatred may be plotting the demise of the kingdom, driven to rot in his own distaste for the vile powers above. Each nation sacrificed one thing for another, much like Jesus did for them. Life was not without sin, only, Hailmån needn’t sacrifice their chance at salvation, only their happiness. 

Hailmån, while also known for being picturesque, reserved, and quiet, was most famously known for having a truly blessed royalty. Each generation inherited an innate ability to pray and be heard. There were few kingdoms, if any, that could boast so many answered prayers, and it was believed that God looked down upon their land with favor because of their virtuous nature. In the summer, the kingdom opened its borders to people beyond the east so that they may partake in prayer and pilgrimage. This joyous occasion was known to all as the annual ‘Summer Communion’. The locals served water with mint and potent bitter teas while food vendors prepared to sell in large quantities. 

Jongin, however, would be tasked with making an appearance – in place of his mother and father – at the towns’ square to greet royalty and other ranks of noblemen for each day of the event. The East was the second largest nation, succeeded only by the south. Great expanses of land and sea separated the kingdoms and communities, such that a dangerous journey would not be made unless necessary. Because of this, Jongin had yet to meet approximately half of the Hailmånish nobles from lesser kingdoms and villages, let alone royalty of foreign origin. They were all unknown faces that may one day be closer to him than any other had ever been. 

The east, though it harbored many diverse kingdoms and rising civilizations over a large expanse of land, was rather hard to reach if one did not live in the south, as the two were connected by an unclaimed land-bridge. Despite this, the westerners of Aetheria were more likely to visit due to their friendly political disposition (and whimsical ways). The south, simply put, was pursuant of expansion and waged devastatingly successful wars under one king whose ancestor had unified the warring villages and rogue troupes under one name; Belmesh. The north, meanwhile, was only discussed under the pretense of rumor and had been isolated for centuries. One day, they had declared a line around their land that no foreigner may cross and their king, who may or may not have declared a successor, has been silent ever since. Most believed, however, that the kingdom had been reduced to impoverished shambles, and though the east and west sought to provide help, they were unable to enter. The truth remained a mystery, but such politics did not bother Jongin, for the world had been that way for as long as he had known. 

“Prince Jongin?” His handservant called, halting him as he walked past the dining room, “Will you partake in breakfast before you depart?” 

“I do not have the stomach for it, today,” he shook his head, trying to rub the sleepy fog from his eyes, “I will not return for lunch, either.” 

“You arise at midday and you refuse to eat,” the handservant scolded, “The head chef cooks for you every morning and your food goes to waste. I felt pity for him, so I cooked, today.” 

Prince Jongin’s handservant was a stern and stoic woman, yet she was benevolent and cared for his well-being more than anyone else in the palace - rivaled only by the head nurse. She had a classic Hailmånish look about her; long, honey-brown hair fell down her back in waves and was pushed out of her face by a starchy linen headband. Her frock was a modest olive-green, and she was never seen without her sleeves rolled and her forehead sweaty, for she maintained more than she seemed to. While her eyebrows maintained a light scowl at all times and her lips were framed by the wrinkles of discipline, she showed her affection by raising Jongin as her own. The head nurse beamed with motherly love and gilded knowledge, and his handservant exuded leadership and the wisdom of age. From her, he learned the ways of the three nations, their politics, and how he may conduct himself in the absence of his father. Her face had been familiar to him from birth. 

“If I do not eat it, the servants’ children will,” Jongin nodded, smiling a gently cocky smile, “If I am not hungry, the food will not go to waste.” 

“Then I suppose it is no issue,” She paused, “As long as you are present for supper.” 

She turned, walking away with a purpose. She had never been one for many words, and Jongin valued her brevity. 

“However, Prince, make the time to visit your father.” 

The opposite had shut behind her before he could retort, leaving him in the quietude of the hallway. Dust flew in frenzied chaos in sunlight that leaked through the windows, yet her footsteps had faded long ago. He knew not what he would have responded with in the instance that he could have, yet he bowed his head in conscious thought. He dreaded seeing his father. Let it be known even if it made him a villain, for these were his true feelings. They were unavoidable. 

He knew nothing about that man. When he saw him, he had either been sat upon his throne, or sitting in his quarters alone. No matter the time, he seemed to be lost in pensive thought, staring into the distance at something that he could no attain. Jongin would try to make polite conversation or catch his attention to no avail and, as he grew, dangerous ploys to be noticed became gentle prods, which then became the end of his will to try. The last time he had come face-to-face with his father had been over two years ago. Afterward, he had decided that he could no longer withstand the heartache, and he had sworn to avoid him like death itself. The disheveled hair, sunken in eyes, a lack of will... How could a son once so close to his father in childhood bear witness to his demise? And so easily, Jongin’s anger was replaced with empathy and sorrow. His father was in mortal pain, eternally mourning the loss of his beloved wife, and deserved to be understood – yet no man could understand. The head nurses words echoed in Jongin’s head. 

He quickly shot his gaze back up and moved briskly toward the center of the palace – a walk that felt like several journeys – halting right before the large, engraved double-doors of his fathers quarters. He pushed past the two knights that guarded his room, persistent that he was sleeping, fighting their grasps wordlessly and with an animals ignorance. Like a firm fist on wood, his heart drummed violently against his chest. How he dripped with sweat, and still his head pounded with a million terrors; nightmares of abandonment from his childhood. He breathed raggedly into the silence, shooting a hand to the handle and shuddering at the touch of chilled steel. 

The gentle sunlight casted the stained glass from across the narrow hallway onto his fathers door. One shot of the “Epic of Man” that depicted Jesus on the cross, the word ‘Salvation’ scrawled in native Hailmanish at the very top. Jongin removed his hand, questioning what God would expect him to do. What more must he sacrifice? If it were not now, he thought that he may never gather the courage to even set eyes upon his father again. 

And yet, his window of opportunity had passed. He did not possess the strength necessary to come face-to-face with what he feared most, and he gave in to comfort. He was not ready, and perhaps he never would be. He apologized sincerely to the knights he had rustled, yet they were only worried for the prince. They were unsure of what had caused him such compulsive distress, but everyone knew about the king’s condition. What son would not fear for their father? Most puzzling, however, was how he had not entered. 

If only they knew, Jongin thought, about how much his father’s mortality haunted him. 

Another day with which he did not do what nagged at him most. 

He exited the palace and made his way to the stables, vomiting in the shrubbery just a few moments later; a nasty concoction of bile and guilt, unpadded by the handservants breakfast, which would have gone to waste. 

—

Jongin wiped his mouth with a spare handkerchief and peered upward. An eagle flew overhead, unaffected by the ravenous summer heat. A creek babbled nearby, evading Jongin’s sight, as he held onto a nearby tree for support. These clement features and sounds allowed him to relax into his unsteady gait, though his stomach churned in disturbance. The cobblestone path toward the stables could not be any longer to Jongin, even if the path was no more than a few dozen meters long. Regardless, he thanked the heavily-wooded passage for his privacy. He despised being the point of worry for others and unequivocally refused to cause a spectacle when everyone was feeling melancholic about his father. 

As he stepped up to the simple wooden structure, he took note of a knight gulping down water, standing beside his horse beneath the shade of the nearest tree. He did not wear his full armor, yet his helmet sat by his feet, a poppy branded into the side of it with a hot iron; a clear indication of Elder Knight status. Jongin could not mistake the Knights sturdy frame and closely-shaven hair, nor his large, Amber-colored eyes. His skin glistened in salty sweat, rebounding the rays of the sun, as he relaxed next to his honeycomb-colored steed, a beautiful specimen with a coat like flowing cattails and golden silk. 

“Knight Kyungsoo,” he began, to which the knight shuffled to bow, “What is it that you are doing on such a sweltering afternoon?” 

“Good afternoon, Prince,” he said, tying his tunic around his waist and shielding his eyes from the sunlight as Jongin approached, “I am going to continue my rounds about the palace for security and the like. May I ask you what your impending responsibilities are?” 

Kyungsoo was a straight-laced and straight-faced man, the perfect balance of strong and humble, a beacon for Hailmånish masculinity. Sensitive, though initiative-taking; thoughtful, though authoritative. His gaze was stern, yet Jongin knew enough to understand that he held a special favoritism for him. He was a simple man with simple needs and no wants, and his prolonged diligence earned him the title of ‘Elder Knight’, leader of all knights, at the young age of 33. 

Despite his strict and disciplined outlook on life, he knew how to introduce Jongin to the amusing aspects of life. With the head nurse and his handservant being closer to parental figures, Jongin figured Kyungsoo to be the closest he had to a friend, and he learned to fraternize through him. He would escort him to village concerts and plays and would show him about various peasant activities, all under the guise of a simple escort, as to not beg suspicion to the peculiar friendship between a royal and a knight (who was considered to be below a noble). While Kyungsoo seldom smiled and barely spoke, he was a kind and considerate listener. He was all but malicious, and Jongin appreciated his company when he was free to humor it. 

The knights of Hailmån were heroic and selfless on the battlefield, but because the Last War was, namely, the ‘last war’, they had retired to keeping peace amongst the community. One of the jobs of palace knights, however, was to escort and protect the royalty. Thereby, Jongin had gotten to know and become personable with the Elder Knights that gave their graces to him. He often wondered what his life would have been like if he were a knight instead of a prince, whose responsibilities did not span the entire kingdom, and whose purpose could be self-determined instead of birth-given and Law-driven. 

“I am simply preparing to make my rounds, for the summer communion is rapidly approaching,” he sighed, allowing a sleepy chuckle to escape his lips, “I suppose you will be my escort for today, if your current duties are not so trapping.” 

“In this peaceful kingdom, they are not.” 

Jongin lended his tender smile to the knight, always pleased to have his company. Even as the most honest man in the kingdom, Kyungsoo could not lie to himself about the prince’s whimsical appearance. He was not the boy that he was when spring had first broken and, just several months later, he carried himself with a remade grace. Not to say that he was not so before, merely to suggest that he had matured along the way; elevated his composure and stood with better posture. His hair was a bit overgrown and touched the tops of his ears, sloping down his neck, and prodding at his eyelashes. On this fine afternoon, he did not wear his white and gold tunics, but instead, a modest linen shawl over his shoulders and down his arms, allowing his sleeveless cotton button-down to give his skin space to breath. The layers followed the breeze and framed him serenely as his fringe swept about his forehead, and Kyungsoo had decided that he had never experienced someone age so well into adulthood. The cute boy he had once cared for had become a man beneath his nose, though lamblike and spoiled by peaceful times, he adopted his height well and had a full, masculine frame. Kyungsoo tilted his head as he watched the prince traipse into the stable. His kindness was no longer that of a sweet child and had become that of a knowing and benevolent soon-to-be-leader. He had no doubt that the Prince would make a respectable King, but if he had the courage to tell Jongin upfront, he would have modestly denied such claims. Shortly and simply, he was ethereal. So much so that, even as a lover of women, Kyungsoo grew ever-so-fond of his face. 

He followed the prince into the stable after taking the liberty to wipe his forehead clean and properly wring out his undershirt, redressing into his formerly tied tunic. Formalities such as proper dress were lost in the Hailmånish summer and humanity was exposed; a persistent reminder that no one was above their limits. We would all live and die the same. 

“Poppy is quite healthy, is she not?” Kyungsoo noted, “Your new stable keeper is quite the groomer.” 

“I have noticed. I must give him my thanks,” Jongin turned, “My Knight, what are the festivities within the village like, right now?” 

“As for now, Prince, festivities have just begun to set up. With that, not much is to be seen, but the performers are beginning to practice. Why do you ask?” 

“Though I am to make sure that things are going smoothly before foreigners begin arriving, I would still like to partake in the fun,” he admitted, hoisting himself upon his horse, “If my handservant asks, I am merely testing the musicians.” 

Kyungsoo always caught a cramp in his chest whenever word of Jongin’s handservant rang, but he had learned long ago to fight the feeling with a few deep breaths and a stomp of his boot. Furthermore, he followed after Jongin upon his own horse, aptly named ‘Willow’, with a breadth of space in between them, but not so much to where they could not hold short and sweet chitchat. 

Kyungsoo could sense that the Prince was good at enforcing distance while maintaining his warmth and, even as his only friend, the knight was put at a distance that could not be trekked. He accepted this, for he did not wish to impede or approach the prince in closer manners. Yet, he wondered about his barriers and reservations; the stops that made him work in odd ways. 

—

The villages were beautiful in Jongin’s eyes, scenic and rustic in the eyes of eccentric travelers from ridiculously rich lands, and quite simple and boring in the eyes of everyone else. There was not much to see, in truth. It was well-forested, littered with beautiful water elements, roads were paved in cobblestone, and vines grew over all. The people lived in cute, small homes of ruddy oak wood, and lanterns lined the streets. There was order that needn’t be maintained, for they all moved like clockwork. While it was not perfect, it was harmonious, and each individual pursued what they may need to make themselves happy. Life was not an extravagance, only a mode to betterment, and the peasants dearly relished these ideals. Each moment was a cherished passing of life, and there was no time to be wasted on, what they deemed, the ‘frivolous’. Hilariously, they got along well with the fatuous personalities of Aetherians. 

Moreover, Hailmån was a hub for cultural performance art; both of old native pasts and current trends. As he rode his horse through the streets, gleaming so freshly, holding a subtle, inviting smile to his lips, he took the care to observe their practices as he worked on his checklist for the upcoming events. The bellowing cello’s were like honey to his ears, the guitars like cool water over his face on a hot day, and booming drums the perfect treatment for his tired ailments. 

The prince hopped off of his horse before a group of girls practicing a partnered folk dance, their forest-green blouses and brown skirts billowed in the wind, their hair tied into long braids while the humidity curled their stray hairs into cute rivulets. Some stumbled before the prince, crushed and besotted by his interested gaze, while others had danced better than they ever had in an attempt to impress him. Having truly enjoyed himself, he clapped and offered them a sweet nod of the head before making his way down the line of performers with his hands clasped loosely behind his back. 

Curious and moonstruck stares followed his every move from passing peripheries, sneaky in such a way that Jongin could sense their nosiness, but not pin the blame. It made him smile childishly, yet he kept his sentiments to himself. The people of Hailmån were innocents imposing on the world, knowing not of the ways of secrecy. 

The sun was highest in the sky as they arrived at the town square. Jongin moved on foot, guiding his horse around the corner and onto the stunning promenade, of which an imported Aetherian water fountain spouted elegantly, tracing patterns in the air with thin streams that crashed into the reservoir. Architecture was a strong point of the Aetherians (along with many other endeavors in science and technology) such that many of the complex structures in Hailmån had been donated for friendship-sake. The fountain had been gifted by the current King of Aetheria, and Jongin had – though secretly – a few installments in the palace that Sehun had sent to afford his attention. The thought made Jongin blush furiously as he attempted to quell the squeal caught in his chest. The expensive pieces were genuinely not necessary to acquire his audience. 

“Other knights have arrived,” Jongin noted, looking around the promenade, “Only of Hailmånish descent, it seems. And none of them seem to be palace knights.” 

“I suppose they are still finishing their rounds, but it does seem that they should be done by now. The younger knights are quite lax, but they are learning how to be swift.” 

“They are but children, I do not expect them to be ‘swift’,” Jongin chuckles softly, the knight close to his side and a bit too close for the peoples’ comfort, “I hope they will finish soon as to enjoy the early performances, do you not?” 

“Of course, Prince. But I do try to teach them to be efficient in their ways.” 

Kyungsoo smiled at the thought of the newly-sworn knights under his training, proud to be welcoming another wave of knights into the palace. He had worked hard to earn his title, and he would continue to spread his legacies. 

“Speaking of knights, is that not a Belic knight, there?” 

Kyungsoo followed Jongin’s gesturing hand to a tall, sturdy man that stood out from the rest of the crowd. His armor was draped over the back of his horse, his tunic tied loosely around his waist to ward off the heat that southerners were far from accustomed to, and his hair was a harmonious mess of sweaty, raven-colored strands. Yet, he stood tall with an iconic air of Belic pride and his sword – emblazoned with the red insignia of the Belic Empire – sat on his hip in a silver holster. The golden arm band on his left bicep was a symbol of knighthood among their people, as Jongin had learned, and they wore it at all times, no matter the circumstance. As an aside thought, Jongin thought he was quite dashing for a warrior. Not so prim, not quite barbaric, a generously charming mix between both realms of identity. 

Upon catching him in the crowd, Kyungsoo’s typically stern face widened into a childish grin as he dashed to the knight, shouting his name with Jongin close in tow at his lazy pace. 

“Chanyeol!” He shouted, causing the younger knight to turn in surprise, “Do my eyes deceive me?” 

The Belic Knight practically sprang up from his boots and dragged the Elder into a brotherly embrace, pulling away to look him up and down. 

“It has been ages since I’ve seen you!” he shouted excitedly, bringing his mug of water to his lips for a drink, “I cannot believe this to be truly happening.” 

“I see that you’ve become a palace knight, have you not?” Kyungsoo glowed, still in a rush from his find, “Surely that must be why you’re here.” 

Chanyeol turned to show Kyungsoo his forearm, that same Belic insignia branded into the roundness of his shoulder, “I have, and the time has finally come. You’re an elder knight, no less?” 

“Surely. I am glad to see that you have grown up and worked hard.” 

“You speak to me as though I am but a child, Kyungsoo,” Chanyeol joked, “I’m only a few years younger than you, thusly it was bound to happen.” 

“Of course, of course.” 

Jongin arrived beside his knight, taking a moment to assess the new face before him. He was aware that the tall man was a friend of Kyungsoo’s, hailing from the South no less, and he held some importance in traveling all this way before the communion had even begun. He saw the branding on his shoulder and scarred lines, seven to be exact, that were vertically carved down the length of his forearm. No less than a mysterious sight to behold. 

“Ah, and this is Prince Kim Jongin Of Hailmån,” Kyungsoo introduced, “I am his escort for today, and he is currently making rounds, so we are quite busy.” 

Chanyeol turned his gaze and stumbled at setting his water to the ground, furiously wiping his hands on his wrinkled pants and briefly swiping his arm across his forehead before taking a deep bow – partly in apology and partly as a custom, but mostly in embarrassment and ignorance of this lands customs. Jongin, as usual, waved off his niceties and smiled, oh-so-benevolent and friendly, Chanyeol thought, before speaking. Regardless, Jongin did not think much of the knight, nor had he registered his face in his memory, yet. 

“And what brings you here?” He asked, “As an Elder Knight, I presume?” 

“I am but an average palace knight of the south,” Chanyeol bowed, handing Jongin a red envelope lined with gold, “Even so, I come bearing news from the Emperor of Belmesh.” 

“I am much appreciative of your efforts, kind knight,” Jongin grinned, a sleepiness to his smile that made all the Lords and Ladies in his vicinity swoon, “Shall I expect him for the yearly summer communion?” 

“And that is where I bear unfortunate news, for the King is unable to attend. The queen has just given birth to his first-born son and he cannot make the journey at this time,” 

Jongin nodded along to the knights apology with upturned brows. with many questions to ask, yet without the reasoning to justify them. Jongin had never met the King of the South, and had only heard his name or his household uttered at the threat of danger. To the Hailmånish people, the King of the South was a force to be reckoned with, unlike any King before him, saving for the Ancient King. With extreme cunning and precise knowledge of war politics, he had managed to revolutionize the Old South – a fractured cacophony of gruesome slaughter and ungodly men – into the united marriage of villages that once waged threats of death and genocide against each other. Though some might consider this a feat whose ability could only be bestowed by God himself, the King of the South did not spare blood or flesh for the homogeny of his land. While his motives remained unknown, stories floated through the air of the vile evil that raged behind his eyes and burned holes through your skin. Others believed that God had chosen him to banish evil from his corner of the Earth, and he had been gifted with the treasured knowledge and masterful skill to do so. Jongin simply could not perceive these complex motivations, nor how truly cruel he must be, yet he was sure that if the King were to attack, he would have done his job long ago. 

Regardless of the opinions of the people, no noble or royal could say that they were a friend to him. 

Moreover, Jongin had wondered how young the King must be to only have birthed his first born recently. He had always imagined him to be an intimidating, looming presence over the rest of the worlds royalty, perhaps drawing such success in war from the wisdom of age. It almost made Jongin chuckle; could the the warmongering King feared by all really be a premature successor who had not even graduated from his studies, yet? This inspired Jongin; perhaps, by a small margin, he could find himself optimistic about his ability to rule. 

“Then, knight,” Jongin hummed, “When will you be returning to your home kingdom?” 

“By the rise of dawn at the end of the week. I have brought with me a notable Lord and Lady, yet they must rest. I will bring them to meet you this time, tomorrow.” 

“Such sounds delightful.” Jongin paused to think, “If I provide you with an official seal, will you deliver a message to the King of the South for me?” 

“Most certainly. I could not be more honored to present news from your kingdom, Prince.” 

Chanyeol was puzzled by the way the prince asked questions rather than made commands. He had been raised by stern nobles, and as a new palace knight he knew better than to assume that the king would ask instead of demand, even if he had never met him face-to-face. Regardless, his disposition did not remind him of royalty – at least, not in the way it was defined in the south. He resembled a spirit walking, an angel if he may think so boldly, and there was no serpentine abstraction behind his divine brown eyes. Surely, this man was not to soon be king. He hid a chuckle deep in his stomach. What a laughable situation, he thought, as he remembered the rumors of the King of Belmesh at this age, a wrathful terror whose stare cut like razors and whose sword stopped for no one. 

Jongin adjusted the cotton-white shawl over his shoulders as the knight bowed and returned to mingle with the knight of the east. He gazed upon Knight Chanyeol, a little grin spreading across his supple lips. He supposed that not all of the South could be considered aggressive brutes and that the rumors were untrue; for even they had respectable and kind – humble, even – knights. The wind blew through his hair as he smiled subtly, squinting against the sunlight, drawing another wave of coos from a crowd of Eastern Ladies that managed to catch a glimpse of his lonesome happiness. 

The fringes of his shawl billowed in the breeze as Jongin became acquainted with the Lords and Ladies of the East. As the first day of communion had broken, it was too early to expect the appearance of foreigners from far and uncommon lands, yet he had not seen many of these faces since childhood. Now, they greeted him as a man, and he made himself known to appear on the behalf of his father. He, knowing that the elder nobles were gossiping fiends, was aware that the implications of his position over the king would become more and more real. 

“Prince Jongin?” 

“Yes, my knight?” Jongin inquired, wandering aimlessly about the town square, occasionally catching a stray poppy petal. 

“Might you be interested in attending the festivities with the knight of the south and I?” 

Jongin chuckled softly, “It seems that you would like to attend the festivities with your friend, and know that you are stuck with me. Are you asking from a pure place of heart?” 

“Don’t take it in such a way, kind Prince,” the knight joked. 

Jongin had known Kyungsoo since childhood. He had seen him grow and become the cultured and empathetic being that he is today – somewhat similar to the Head Nurse – and he did not mind the jokes and requests of the knight. Within the crowd, eyes pierced the back of the Elder Knight, burning with envy at their close camaraderie. 

“You have been given Gods’ blessing,” the knight of the east boasted, slinging an arm around his friend, “You get to be in the presence of the Prince for an evening!” 

The knight of the south, too flustered to speak, nodded and bowed before the prince, expressing his gratitudes to which Jongin chose to decline them. He did not yet understand the gravity of his mere existence among the people, yet. 

“That is one thing about our virtuous Prince,” the eastern knight began, “He will never accept your gratitudes.” 

The three shared a kindly laugh, to which Jongin asked, “How did a knight from the east manage to become friends with a knight of the south?” 

“Just as today, a summer communion.” The eastern knight volunteered, “Now that our nations are no longer at war, we have become great friends.” 

“And I am grateful to have friends who take care of me when I visit foreign lands,” Chanyeol nodded, “He is truly outstanding.” 

Jongin enjoyed their frenetic chatter, trailing behind them as to take in the beautiful scenery in his own space. As the sun sank – yet did not quite set – the lanterns began to light. Children ran about in poppy crowns and the vendors pulled their carts out to cater to weary travelers whom had arrived late in the day. The streets were usually filled with activity in the evening, but with the land congregating in the town square, it was as though the bustling would never settle down. Jongin liked this, feeling the energy of the people clash about him, friendly chatter and hearty laughs filling his ears like sweet birdsong. Silence set ablaze an aching cramp within his stomach, and to sit in a room singularly was a phobia. He silently thanked the two knights for their company. 

Amongst the streets, the people danced in flowing dresses and tapped their feet to the rhythms of performers. An adorable girl playing the lute caused him to linger in his step, and she broke a note. With a nod and a smile, he encouraged her to continue, with which she did, as he walked away. The knights, now drunk and well fed, tramped in staccato with an arm slung around each other and two laughs that faded into the harmony of music before them. As the dragonflies made their evening appearance and a heat wave ballooned over the village, Jongin truly began to feel at home. He loved Hailmån, even as a quiet passerby. 

How he wished that was all he was. 

“I will return to my quarters, Chanyeol,” the knight of the east spoke, attempting to cover his drunken lisp, “Shall we meet again tomorrow? Though we were once rivals, I have missed you dearly.” 

Chanyeol, however, was not so lucky as to bear the weight of alcohol with even half as much grace. He giggled fervently, slurring his words and showing his affections, much to Kyungsoo’s dismay. As the two had stopped, Jongin was easily able to saunter up to bid his farewell. Yet, the words were caught in his throat as he viewed the hyper pink tones of Chanyeol’s face, of which were accentuated by the soul-trapping, black eyes that absorbed all the warm light around them and returned a glimpse into dark, unknown depths. A poppy petal had landed in his hair, as though decorating his chaotic sangfroid with cruel irony, and Jongin giggled. Below his skin, he felt a building warmth, and within that warmth, he felt Chanyeol. The bubbly man before him, so polite, sweet, and fun, was a true delight to the soul. If to just feed off of such exquisite freedom, he hoped to see him again. 

“My generous, fair prince,” the knight of the east mumbled, dragging Chanyeol into a bow with him, “I will send this ill-composed knight to his living arrangement, for he would most likely lose himself without me. Will you be needing an escort back to the palace?” 

“It is but a small trip from the town square,” Jongin assured, holding a hand up, “Please return home safely. And, please refrain from drinking so heavily. Do everything in moderation, yes?” 

“You are a wise prince, and that is why the people love you.” 

Jongin knew he was all but wise, but he accepted the compliment, regardless. He met Chanyeol’s lazy gaze, of which glowed with the nights liquor and pressed a gentle smirk into his face. He seemed to follow Jongin’s eyes, as though he wished to speak. Such a gaze, foreign to Jongin, almost had him buckling at the knees. Such intensity, such bravery amongst people that could not even look him in the eyes… There was an air of intimacy to it all that he had almost fallen oblivious to. 

He pardoned himself from the evening, wrapping his shawl tightly around his shoulders as a light pressure built in his being and chilled his spine. As he rode his horse back home he stared absently into the night sky, seeing a reflection of the southern knights eyes in the space between stars. 

—

Jongin was called the ‘Gentle Prince’ by most of the ladies and men of the land for his sleepy, slow disposition. Perhaps this is why they rumored him to behold such fantastic abilities; he appeared confident, yet he was simply lethargic and soft spoken. Though Jongin could speak well in public, he was one of low energy, and would foresee peace for his people. War was not in his plans, but he knew the council expected great tactical performance. 

Despite his chronic lethargy, his steps sprang ever so lightly, today. He had arisen just a few hours earlier than he typically did, and he felt the excitement of communion flow throughout his veins. He would love to meet new people today, yet he knew that he only wished to meet the knight. The prince harbored only good memories of the tall man, happily stumbling through the dim, scented streets of his homeland. He was strikingly handsome; the handsomeness with which a hardworking and diligent knight carried. Chanyeol was a well-built, tanned gentleman with the heroic looks of a warrior of the south. His black locks lacked a direction to follow and spilled out in whichever way it chose to, though it was short. His eyes, his smile, the way he composed himself like a Lord, it attracted Jongin’s attention, and he knew not how to deal with such feelings. It was no doubt that the knights of Hailmån were tame in comparison to the knights of Belmesh. They were rugged, bold, aggressive, and robust. They had fought wars and came out as undisputed victors, known for brutal displays of violence and gore. Meanwhile his own were like the gentle protectors of the land, and he would have it no other way. As he prepared to leave the palace once again, he could only smile at his brief thoughts of the man. 

“I am glad to greet you in a good mood, Prince Jongin,” the messenger greeted pleasantly, “I bear another letter from the Prince of Aetheria.” 

“Another?” Jongin asked, taking the envelop in hesitation, “How are they able to send their mail so quickly?” 

“Carrier doves, my prince. They fly over the sea dividing our lands in a matter of days.” 

Jongin was surprised to hear that the Aetherians were able to harness the doves abilities. He was instantly reminded of the story of Noah and the Ark. 

“I see, how fascinating! Thank you, my intelligent messenger.” 

The messenger, not so used to compliments, grinned and retreated. 

Jongin, now alone in the breakfast corridor, felt a nervous buzzing in the pit of his stomach. Though the envelop seal was not stamped in deep purple wax, and instead replaced by the standard glimmer of gold-infused aquamarine, Prince Sehun had a way with words that set his skin ablaze. His perversions were like an avalanche upon his nerves, they raised the hairs on the back his neck and sent jolts of energy up his hips. 

_ ‘My dear, delectable Prince,  _

_ I have written you again to inform you of my absence from the summer communion. Sadly, while my mother will be in late attendance, I will not. The pilgrimage has come at a very unfortunate time, for reasons which I am not at liberty to tell. However, because I have grown restless of keeping secrets, and because I can hold no secret from you, I must say: the west is planning on sending scouts to the north on the first expedition in years. Thereby having this knowledge, please do not think I have forgotten you. I share a political duty with my father to spread the Aetherian influence and search for dangers of war.  _

_ Let it be known that I think of you twice every day: once when I rise, and once again when I lay my head to rest. I believe that I will be able to see you again during the winter solstice. My devotion will bring me to you over frozen seas and frigid winds, for that is how much I long for you. Even when I feel that I may freeze over, my heart will still burn within the ice.  _

_ I will keep you in my prayers every night. I will mention you whenever I must speak to God. I will be with you, soon enough, yet that day may not come quickly. When time permits, I will sate my desire with a feast upon your tempting body. On the night we meet again, I hope that you will become mine.  _

_ Please save me a spot at the winter solstice dining ceremony.  _

_ And if my mother inquires about me at the summer communion, please do not expose our relationship just yet. I would like to introduce our arrangement personally to my parents and my people.  _

_ Yours Truly,  _

_ Oh Sehun, Prince of Aetheria  _

Jongin’s heart fluttered at the lovely words on the parchment. He didn’t know what to call this feeling – was it love? Had he been utterly, unmistakably charmed? Or rather, had he been bewitched by the likes of a masterfully experienced seducer? He did not know, for he hadn’t ever known the feeling, yet Sehun knew how to speak in such ways that toyed with his heart and made him believe that he could love him should the time come. Even in lust, Sehun knew how to make Jongin feel special. He put him onto a pedestal and adored him from afar, showing him affections that he had lacked most of his life. 

Jongin sat in a nearby chair, pondering what marriage to Sehun might be like as he re-read and re-re-read the letter. He could love him, could he not? He figured that Sehun might make a devoted and loyal husband and secondary to his land, and that was the best he could hope for. Even so, he wondered who would rule Aetheria in his absence. He wondered… Who he might have loved if he did not settle for Sehun. The more he thought about it, the sicker he felt; anxiety twisting about in his stomach, and midnight hair and eyes sharper than a new blade swept through his visions. 

Furthermore, Jongin wondered how the Aetherians manufactured such flexible, impossibly white paper alongside such smooth, black ink. They were growing rapidly, continuously gifted with God-sent talents and unending innovation. He wished to be able to provide such blessings for his own people, whom of which wrote on fragile parchment with a weak, fading ink that made letters lose their message as they travelled on horseback for weeks at a time. While Hailmån was blessed with the power of prayer – to be heard as God’s humble children – Aetheria was blessed with innovation and intelligence, and Belmesh with pure, uninhibited strength.. Humble men required humble blessings, yet Jongin hoped to provide his people with more than spare pickings. They must recover from a catatonic king that would not apologize for his selfishness first, and Jongin must be the example they need to place respect upon the throne once more. 

Though regularly escorted about by his party of palace knights, Jongin travelled to the town square with his handservant by his side, following the steps of his horse. Jongin’s handservant, a pleasant woman with wrinkles around her scowl, had replaced Jongin’s nanny once he had turned 13. And, though only a few years older than him, she was in charge of taking care of his domestic whims. Though he knew little about her, as co-mingling amongst lower powers in the palace was widely frowned upon, he did know that she had trained to become a respectable handservant the majority of his life. She was rule-abiding, appropriate, and knew many things that Jongin had yet to learn, but there were times when he wondered about her life outside of catering to him. He hoped she was happy and lived a blessed, fulfilling life. In a wretched show of irony, she enforced the rules that left her like this. No one in the palace could claim to be as disciplined, Jongin believed. 

The knights of Hailmån, especially on warm summer days such as this, wore no armor or weapon other than their swords. Their only marker of knighthood beside their engraved sheaths was the green leather patch slung across their left shoulder. 

The knights of Belmesh, however, had come from the cold south in their full armor. The first thing Jongin saw as he entered town square was a magnificent line of knights’ helmets that shone blindingly in the sunlight, each of which was marked by a bold, red, medieval cross and a vibrant, red feather atop it. They were lined, about 30 in total, atop the fountain to signify that an entire troupe was present. Jongin had remembered reading about how a Belic raid was signified by a knights helmet atop a stake in the ground, because they were so confident in winning the final stretch that they no longer wore them and circled the enemy for an ending ambush. 

Yet Jongin knew better than to fret, or perhaps he was naïve, for his favorite Belic knight was nearby, shirtless in all his glory, never more attractive than in the present. 

“Is it not a bit rude to leave your belongings around the public space?” The handservant chastised. 

“They are quite charming, however, are they not?” Jongin said, averting his eyes and biting his lip to hide a smile, “Such boundless fun.” 

The Belic knights hung about the area, joking around and enjoying the heat of the east. They caused a ruckus, made noise, and attracted attention, as the southerners tended to do when they arrived. While some frowned at their crude disposition, others engaged their ostentatious antics with riotous laughter; as though their displays were a dissidence to the unspoken code of the Hailmånish. 

“Hey!” An eastern Elder Knight shouted, “You ought to behave in the presence of the prince! What has gotten into you?” 

“It’s all in good fun, east one,” another knight shot back, “Learn to enjoy yourself!” 

“I suppose the Belic brutes are still as primitive and misbehaved as ever,” scoffed another. 

“At least we aren’t as prude as those Catholics!” 

And, like that, arguments arose, fell, and then the market was back to normal. Jongin laughed, causing his handservant to wonder what it was that brought him so much joy. Truthfully, even he did not know, yet he found their ability to become angry and then fizzle away so quickly to be comical and darling. The Hailmånish were a slow-burn people, ever-patient and tolerant, yet slow to anger or cry aloud. Belic people were combusting and clambering like their camaraderie – the throws of friendships, lovers, and families – were all that would ever matter. How Jongin wished to be this way; to share these intense and retreating emotions. 

“Prince,” Kyungsoo bowed, even though Jongin disliked it greatly, “It is good to see you once again.” 

“You appear to be having great fun,” Jongin noted, “Sadly, my poor handservant had to escort me through the woods into the town square. Such a shame on such a humid day, is it not?” 

The knight blushed and stammered, “My apologies, I thought that-” 

“Hush, hush, I’m only teasing,” Jongin chuckled, holding a hand up to appease the flustered knight, “We are enjoying the square, just as anyone else would. Have you come to visit your dear friend, again?” 

“Surely, I have! He has arrived with his escort, however, and I have been told to not embarrass him.” 

“Good news, I remember that I was to meet a Belic Lord and Lady. Bring me to them, will you not?” 

The two spotted the Lord and Lady strolling side-by-side, engaged in gentle conversation as two knights trailed behind them, bearing the Mark of Belmesh on their sheaths. Jongin was fond of summer communion because it was a chance for his fellow man to rejoice in God’s reign and enjoy themselves. Unlike the winter solstice, which was marked by formality and Jesus’ sacrifice toward human Salvation, such a pilgrimage brought everyone together. Near and far, different and similar, they all became one during these times. 

The couple, unlike their rowdy knights, were rigid and serious; borderline frightening, as Jongin had thought. The Lord had scars of war upon his face and stood tall with a royal posture. His wife had a strong build and spoke in vocabularies that Jongin could not decipher. As it turned out, the Lady was once the princess of a warring village with a different language and culture, and she was most infamously known for her tremendous slaughter of many Old Belic knights. Supposedly, the Ancient King of Old Belmesh had given her control over parts of his land because of her hellish performance, and she kept her people in line, even though that was outside of their nature (which was a feat in and of itself). 

Though the two shared many grand stories of war, travel, and terror, Jongin could not keep his eyes off of the knight behind them for too long. He was much stronger and muscled than Jongin had initially noticed, and his sweaty skin glinted in the bright sunlight like polished gold. His hair clung to his forehead, muddled by the heat, and yet still he was as handsome as the evening prior. Jongin wished to see a smile upon his serious face, though he caught himself in the middle of such thoughts, and realized that he ought not pay so much mind. 

“I would like to open the humble Hailmånish palace to your visitation,” Jongin announced to the noble couple, “If you so kindly would, I hope to see you sometime by the end of this week.” 

“That is the least that we could do for you to extend your blessed lands to us,” the Lady replied, breaking her stony face with a grin, “We have brought gifts for your father.” 

“We are very sorry to hear that the King has been ill,” The Lord sympathized, “One day you are a naïve young man, and the next, you realize that the kingdom is soon to be in your possession. How does such a thing feel like?” 

Jongin was not sure as to how he might answer truthfully without being pitiable, so he answered with a safe and studious statement, assuring them that he would be okay, even though he clearly was not. His father, unlike the King’s of other lands, did not teach him much, therefore, he learned all he knew about the kingdom by way of royal advisors, the handservant, and his own excursions. All the meanwhile, he caught a glimpse of Chanyeol gazing upon his face as though he had dozed off while awake and standing. It was quite curious; he wondered what intent was behind such a blankly stare. 

And, though unprincely, he wished for Chanyeol to gaze upon him the same way he had done the previous night. A daring smirk, a daring air of confidence, and a toxic whiff of arrogance. 

—

That evening, Jongin continued to peruse the festivities with his lovely handservant, whom of which was happy to tag along, yet maintained the illusion of indifference. She, much like many of the palace hands, did not venture out often. Jongin was happy to be able to give her such a chance. 

As the sun sank and evening showed it’s young face, the streets began to fill, spilling over its brim and lushly loud. The air smelled of roasted chicken, dried spices, sour sauces, and a bit of something else that was hard to pinpoint. Music was at every few feet, on the promenade people gathered around dance groups, and though it was far past their bedtime, the children still ran about as they had the night prior. The breeze refreshed all, but it did not hold Jongin’s heart up in the face of hand-holding and chaste kiss. It was all around him, sincerity that is, like the universe had heard his cries and only wanted to torture him. 

“How have you felt about summer communion?” Jongin asked, knowing the handservant was not too far behind his gait. 

“It is everything I have ever longed for,” she said, “Yet, it brings me sorrow.” 

“Sorrow?” He asked, bewildered, “How could such excitement and prayer bring you sorrow?” 

“Because I will not be able to experience it often. I live within the palace, Prince. My duties do not belong here, thereby I have no business visiting. Even if I have become accustomed to and satisfied with life, I still find myself asking God about things like this.” 

“Are you saying that I am a bore to be around?” 

“Only to say that I wish my fate was discerned by God, and not by Royal Law.” She paused, “Even If Royal Law was, in part, dictated by God. Free peasants do not serve the way that I must serve.” 

The handservant has long since grown accustomed to Jongin’s occasional, good-natured teasing, and he had since become used to her brushing his ignorance aside. Jongin could never remain impartial on the basis of Royal Law, for he felt that it placed too much emphasis on genetic lineage, and less on the presence of God. While most were glad to be royalty, and many would kill to take it, the title had become a convoluted display of wealth and dominance. You were trapped in such a life by Royal Law; fleeing was not an option. Jongin dearly wished to show his handservant the ways of the world beyond the palace, but it was not always possible. When he left her to her own devices, she would work diligently until the sun set and she retired. No matter how she convinced, Jongin would feel eternally guilty – even if her virtual confinement was not his fault. However, when he brought her out and about with him in place of his knights, the public would think she were his new flame, and at this they would go insane. If he could not be happy, he wanted her to be so. 

“I still remember when you were a child,” she commented, untying the horses lead as they arrived where they left her, “You were just as sweet and thoughtful then as you are now. Nothing has changed.” 

“I am glad that you think so highly of me.” 

“I have noticed you being more solemn and lonesome than usual,” the handservant notes, petting the horses nose, “I hope you are finding things to derive joy from at this trying time.” 

“I can assure you that I’m health-“ 

“I have known you since you were a child, Prince,” the handservant snaps, albeit gently, “You may wish to hide the truth, but I can see through you like glass. I will not pry, as that is not my place, but take care of yourself. Form good bonds with the people around you at communion. You never know when they will come in handy.” 

Jongin nodded. Though she was considered a ‘lowly indoor servant’, he respected her various wisdoms on the palace, politics, and the various whimsicalities of worldly desire. She was well-educated on matters apart from how to clean and be a comfort, even if she knew not of mathematics and science. Her value to him in teaching all that she knew that had eluded his mind was invaluable, and her presence as a shoulder to lean on was without bounds. He had learned a lot of what he had known from the dutiful women in his life, and he believed that, had his mother been alive, he would have been well-prepared for the throne, even if his father was all but absent. 

“Where would I be without you?” 

“In a ditch, loathing, living in squalor,” she said, cracking the tiniest of grins, “That is what I tell myself, anyway.” 

“I most likely would be. Do not doubt yourself, dearest handservant.” 

The handservant, though only a bit older than the head nurse, was a rather strict and stoic lady. Whereas the head nurse was comforting and careful, the handservant was honest and stern. It was only on occasion where she would joke and smile with the prince; it had always been when he needed it most. Even she, though one may not expect it, had an overflowing heart. 

“Prince Jongin,” the eastern knight bowed, interrupting their conversation, “My apologies on the interruption. I have come to ask if you would join my dearest pal and I.” 

The handservant shot Jongin a look that he could not necessarily interpret. He had learned to be able to translate her various scowls, and he was not sure if this one meant ‘how could you be so friendly with a knight?’ or ‘you ought to stop wallowing in your lonesomeness and fraternize with someone’. He cautiously chose the latter. 

“I suppose I have spare time, this fair evening,” he said, handing the reigns over, “I will send you home without me, handservant.” 

“As I expected. Be safe and do not wander about too late.” 

“I shall not.” 

She boarded his horse, galloping away onto the forest path that led to the castle. All the while, Jongin’s knightly friend could not keep his eyes off of her. 

“You allow a handservant to ride your horse?” Chanyeol questions, as though he had manifested from thin air. 

“Our dear prince of the East is not like other princes,” the eastern knight swooned proudly, “He does not discriminate on rank.” 

“You have been so kind to me, recently,” Jongin stated, “But, I believe you have a crush on my handservant. It is no wonder you have been so close by, at the ready like a sentry.” 

The knight blushed as his friend teased his crumbling composition, “I have no such crush on anyone, right now,” he defended, “You know that Hailmånish knights are sworn to celibacy. I will die unmarried, unless I break the Knightly Code and run away.” 

“I will keep close eyes on the likes of both of you, then,” Jongin joked, “As for you, Knight Chanyeol, how have you been faring in our kind kingdom?” 

Jongin had never seen someone that bared the hallmark features of Belmesh so prominently until he laid eyes upon the southern warriors face. The average Belic person was known particularly for sharp eyes, and many envied their thick, pitch-black hair, which was never complete without tiny cultural braids and adornments, of which Chanyeol had one red feather braided into a small sprig that fell loosely around his neck. Even more so, they were known for being athletic and titanous like the heroes you read of in grand fables. Their skin was much like the Hailmånish peoples’, but instead of an earthy bronze complexion, they inherited glimmering olive undertones. Jongin had known the eyes of Hailmån and Aetheria all his life, clear and soft like pools of molasses and cloudless skies, but Chanyeol’s pierced the air with the darkest black that Jongin had ever seen. 

“I do enjoy the festivities and food of your land,” he nodded politely, “And-“ 

“And the beer!” 

Now it was Chanyeol’s turn to stammer in front of the Prince. Jongin laughed at the antics of the two as they attempted to force each other into irrecoverable embarrassment. He had once longed to have such dear friendships. However, being a Prince meant only befriending royalty, and as the Hailmån palace declined, he could only confide so much in so few people. His best friends were a nurse, an Elder Knight, and a servant. He longed for the warmth of true companionship, not one forced by Royal Law. Such were the woes of a princely life. He had adjusted long ago; learned that he would be responsible for all, and no one would be responsible for him. 

More importantly, he loved Chanyeol’s blushing face, just as much as he loved his stern one. He had never fallen for someone so three-dimensionally. He wanted to know about him, not of him. He was a mystery to the sheltered prince who knew not of travel to other kingdoms or the ways with which people adapted to adversity. To his innocent eyes, he was an enigma, and a puzzling one, at that. He wanted to sit down and hear Chanyeol’s tales, uninhibited by the public and its noise. Secretly, he wished to be held closer than close. 

The trio walked about the streets, garnering passing bows from the people. A brave Southern warrior fraternizing among a humble eastern protector, all in the presence of the prince? If it had not been for the prince’s eminence, it would have become a comedic spectacle. 

“These scarred indents on your forearm,” Jongin murmured as they stopped for water, “From what had you received them?” 

Jongin ran his fingers along the indentations that ran down Chanyeol’s burly forearms. They were scarified lines, no more than a ½ of a centimeter deep and two inches long, with a red dot on either end that seemed to be tattooed into the skin. Jongin had counted seven in total. 

“They are the honorary scars of my land,” he said, flinching at Jongin’s touch of the bottommost one, the skin raw and red from its freshness. 

“My apologies,” Jongin said, withdrawing his fingers. 

“No, it is fine,” Chanyeol said, stumbling over breaths. 

Chanyeol’s eyes lingered on the prince’s soft, callous-free hands, drifting up to meet the prince’s eyes, a lop-sided and tame smirk about his face. The smirk, however, slowly became the remnants of amusement and a lingering confusion. His emotions, he never hid them well, and yet, Jongin was oblivious to his stares as he chatted with the eastern knight. 

He felt a tingling sensation dance from his healing wound, small pulses became leaping bounds of thrill, and then total numbness throughout his body. He had never felt so light – so airy – his heavy knees and aching shoulders bore the burden of a killer, and for the first time in years he felt as nimble as a knight-in-training. He had heard of the Hailmånish prince bearing great gifts from God, but he had never imagined that God worked through him in such ways. He felt fresh and rejuvenated, almost anew. He drank this feeling in like fine wine, quenched for more, though already dancing in booze. 

The prince, being in his position, had no idea that he possessed such power. Or, rather, an ability to heal, as ‘power’ was a harsh word to the Hailmånish tongue. He had never touched a soul – not since his mother had passed. Starved of lingering hand, friendly hug, and chaste kiss, he knew not that he was blessed with healing. 

Yet, Jongin had the post-moment clarity to understand that he should not be touching a knight as a prince, especially in the strict circumstances of the southern culture. He could feel the people around gossiping about his actions; a clear indicator of an accidental faux pas. Their whispering had followed him his whole life. Yet, he still used such a lame excuse as a reason to touch his skin; to become even centimeters closer, to find refuge in those scars. It did not matter what they meant. 

“The warriors of the south are proud beings, are they not?” The eastern knight awed, withdrawing the group to a quieter, isolated corner to sip at their frothy drinks, “Did you know, Prince Jongin? Each line counts for 100 heads.” 

“I am no longer a child, Knight,” Jongin laughed, “You mustn’t lie for my entertainment. Lying to royalty is a punishable offense.” 

“You would never have me hanged,” the eastern knight joked, “But I am being truthful. Quite barbaric, is it not?” 

Kyungsoo short Chanyeol a raised brown and chided him teasingly, watching the tips of his ears burn with a fiery red; a color most characteristic of the Belmesh Empire. Blood, blush, and burning fire; raging passion. 

While Chanyeol assumed the abrupt withdrawal of his fingers to be born of disgust and distaste, Jongin was only mildly lost in thought. 700 deaths by the hand of this man? He wondered if they were innocents, if Chanyeol had ever killed a woman or a child. Such thoughts as these plagued his mind. The crush forming within the hidden caverns of his heart slowly drained to near emptiness as he wondered whether he could love a man that took pride in his murders. 

“It is not as though I kill for the fun of it,” Chanyeol quipped back, “I am performing my duty to my kingdom in the best way that I know how.” 

“As anyone should,” the eastern knight shrugged, “Might you partake in some alcohol, Prince?” 

“I do not drink,” Jongin said, snapping back to reality, “It is the devils beverage of choice. You know this.” 

“As I had almost forgotten.” 

Jongin engaged in friendly conversation with the two knights as they shared their knightly tales. While Kyungsoo spoke of comical village occurrences or the odd things he saw while he patrolled the palace grounds at night, Chanyeol retold grand expeditions of war and terror; he spoke of battling enemies of his kingdom and reforming their lands to reflect the Belic emperor. Everything was made in his image, and the knight arrived to reflect his principles: to stand proud and with sophistication, but to kill without mercy, for their mercy was not to spare life, but to take it quickly and without pain. 

“You are truly befitting of Elder Knight status,” Kyungsoo said, already beginning to feel the effects of the intoxicating elixir, “Might I ask, how many heads does your Elder have?” 

“He should be receiving his 50th line anytime soon, now,” Chanyeol replies, “I am but war fodder, he and his 12 knights are the sole protectors of the emperor.” 

‘5,000 murders,’ Jongin scoffed internally. Though he was described as naïve by the handservant more times than he could count, he knew better than to fall for a tale. 

“I have heard of them. He calls his troupe the 12 Disciples, does he not? I wouldn’t want anything to do with a group of such atrocities.” 

“Are you speaking of the blasphemer knight?” Jongin asked, breaking his passive role in the conversation. 

“Blasphemer is but an understatement, Prince,” Chanyeol said, “I have great respect for my leaders in battle, but I cannot condone the acts of him if the rumors are true. I will not humor gossip about his troupe, but he… He is the only man on Earth that strikes fear within me.” 

Jongin pondered his words, pulling a scowl. This knight, ‘The Blasphemer’ as he was nicknamed, had only risen to power recently. Yet, Jongin overheard an endless stream of information about him from his Elder Knights, council, and even the average Hailmånish. They say that he wore a golden armor and a blood-red cape; resembling a Roman warrior or the Catholics on the other side of the world. His sword was always clean, despite how he swung it so mercilessly. No one had seen his face outside of Belic nobles, knights, and royalty because, supposedly, no one had ever gotten near enough to look upon his features before being slain in cold blood. Jongin feared what he could do with the power he amassed; he wondered what the possibility of war might be, and if his first step as king should be building an army to match that of the south. 

Then, however, he looked upon the face of Chanyeol. He, now more than just a little drunk, smiled so sweetly and humored his fellow knights ill-timed puns. He stood lackadaisically and would not offend the sensibilities of the Prince, despite being from a region that had committed several offenses to his lands and harbored groups that despised the royal family of Hailmån. Dare he think such things, he thought that the knight was adorable. Perhaps, in another life, if he were but a peasant, he would offer his hand to him. 

Jongin was struck with sorrow. As the lantern fire bounced off of Chanyeol and he emitted a warm, inviting glow, overflowing with alcohol and chuckling that low, melodious chuckle of his, he knew that he would invade Hailmån with his troupe without a second thought. Such a comical, gentle giant could not be the noble warrior that had slain 700 men, yet he was. Jongin felt his spirits settle in his stomach. Even if he wanted to pursue this small crush, he could not love a murderer. Even if God gave him the strength to love a man that did not align his ideals with his own, he was a Prince. 

His fate had been bound when he was born. He did not have the option. 

That was his purpose. 

He was broken from his depressive inner-monologue when he felt a looming presence over him, to which he noticed Chanyeol standing close to his side. Unable to contain his embarrassment, he blushed heavily, the rosy hue just barely able to break the surface of his tanned skin. His drunken warmth dispersed through the area and heated Jongin like a heavy blanket in the middle of winter storms, yet his heat was suffocatingly noxious in the heat wave. Despite being so overwhelming, he craved his skinship. 

“I adore this shawl on you,” Chanyeol cooed, running an adventurous and strong hand down his arm, “It reminds me of the Virgin Mary, only you wear it with sensuality.” 

He fondled the tassels that hung off of his shoulders, calling the Prince by hist first name and calling his desirabilities in forms that the prince had never encountered. Instinctively, Jongin pulled his shawl tight around his shoulders and took a step backward, averting his eyes from those of the southern warrior. He could feel his gaze upon him, and his hair stood on end as his face tickled with pinpricks. The warrior drew himself closer and closer, cornering him into the brick wall. It was painfully obvious that the alcohol made the southerner impulsive and dangerously bold, yet Jongin liked to pretend that this was Chanyeol’s honest truth; he desired Jongin to the same extent with which Jongin wanted him. The liquor only made him so delirious as to be unable to inhibit his inclinations. The eastern knight, meanwhile, leaned against a nearby brick wall, trying his damndest to stand upright with an empty bottle of mead on the ground near his feet. 

“I must escort my friend home,” He said, his voice but a whisper in the breeze yet strong enough to break the prince’s besotted trance, “Will you come enjoy yourself with us, tomorrow evening?” 

His index finger twirled bewitchingly in the prince’s brown hair, which curled coyly in the humidity. Chanyeol’s lips drew perilously close, an accidental movement would become the key to catastrophy. 

“I must visit the town square for the rest of the week. I will be where I must,” he said confidently, although he took a pace to the side, feeling scandalous even if no one noticed them as the night festivities continued and they stayed hidden in their corner. 

To this, Chanyeol smirked and bowed deeply, as though he were relishing the Prince’s audience, and walked away to collect his dazed friend. 

—

The next morning, Jongin passed by the head nurses office to pay her a visit, only to see them empty and unforgivingly silent. He was puzzled, for the infirmary was typically bustling with activity. If not caring for a sick palace servant, sanitizing, or discussing health in general, they were still standing idly by, chatting amongst each other or carrying on small hobbies. It had only briefly crossed his mind before he back-tracked – they were most likely in his fathers quarters to tend to his illness. 

He ran a finger along the wooden doorway and dust rubbed off onto the tip before dispersing into the air with a gust of breath They mustn’t have been present in the infirmary for a long while, toward which Jongin felt his gut clench. 

The prince turned on his heel with a huff without so much as a double-take before spotting Kyungsoo, who patiently guarded the adjacent hallway. 

“I see that you’re quite busy, Kyungsoo.” He said absentmindedly, staring at his boots. 

“If I seem busy, then you must not have gotten much sleep, Prince,” he joked. 

“If only I had. Sleep had escaped me last night, save for a spell of exhaustion here and there.” 

“And what might have kept the such a renowned bedworm up on such a comfortable evening?” 

“Comfortable for you, perhaps, because you were drunk enough to have met God,” Jongin teased, enjoying the flush that rushed to Kyungsoo’s cheeks, “But I cannot help but dream of someone that I have drawn a liking to.” 

“I feel the same way,” Kyungsoo nodded, his lips tightening into a line, “About someone that I especially fancy. I know how you feel, in some sense. They never quite escape your mind.” 

“So my instinct was correct,” Jongin smirked mischievously, “My Elder Knight is in a spell for my handservant?” 

“And you know how inappropriate that is!” He exclaimed, peering behind him in paranoia, “Rumors will be rumors, and I do not have the power to erase them. Rather, it is a man’s unfortunate destiny that brings him to love others in strong ways with which he never thought to love himself.” 

Jongin absorbed the knights words through the thin air while dust danced on beams of sunlight that leaked through a nearby window. The two took a moment of silence, staring at the floor in contemplation with nothing much to say before the Prince broke the silence, 

“On being a knight, is it difficult?” Jongin asked, his gaze attached to Kyungsoo’s lips and his voice somberly soft. 

“Being a knight is rather rewarding,” he shrugged, peering at the wall, his brow knit in pursuit for the right words for the Prince, “It is not being able to show and indulge in love that is difficult.” 

“Does it not remind you of Adam?” 

“Adam? Well, yes, I suppose so. Actually… Perhaps Eve is a better example. Temptation was the beginning of all evil, and love is the biggest temptress.” 

“And you are okay with such a contract?” 

“If I were not, I never would have become sworn. This was my own, proudly-made decision.” 

“What if I were to demote you to a village knight so that you could wed? Would it bring you joy?” 

“After I have worked so hard? It would almost be a slap in the face.” 

“You seem content, then. That is honorable.” 

Jongin abruptly stepped to the knight, bringing his lips to his and placing the gentlest of amateur kisses upon his lips, caressing his face with pampered hands that drifted sinfully down his neck. The kiss itself was meek and tame, though messy and directionless. Jongin knew not the ways of subtlety or reciprocation, yet his lips were soft and enchanting as they sucked on Kyungsoo’s lower lip. Never one to resist the Prince, Kyungsoo stood in shock – he could not touch him, nor could he scold him. He was subservient in all ways, with no circumstance being the exception. 

He wondered, would the prince despise his touch? Would he keel back in disgust if he dared to pull him closer? Clearly not, for that was not his character. Wisely, he chose to merely exist. Not accepting the Prince’s advances, not denying them; only submitting to the soothing touch of plush lips to his own. Each kiss, excruciatingly slow, came with a hot huff of breath to his face. He smelled of mint and licorice. 

Jongin pulled away and peered expectantly into the knights eyes, and giggled at the daze plastered across his face before drawing his hands away from his neck. 

“Was that a test, Prince?” 

“I suppose it was, if that is what you make of it,” Jongin giggled lightly, pulling away, “You’ve passed.” 

As Jongin walked away, still buzzing from his first kiss, Kyungsoo jostled in his armor. The Prince wished to know what a kiss might feel like, as if he would never see Chanyeol again. Kyungsoo, on the other hand, was lit with lust from within like a candle desperate for oxygen. 

—

“So I have escorted you once again, Prince,” the handservant chided, stopping to view a vendors cart in hunger, “Where might that lazy Elder Knight of yours be?” 

Jongin smirked and exhaled lightly through his nose in slight amusement, knowing that she loved to make jokes on the Elder knights name. 

“You seem to be increasingly interested in his whereabouts,” he began, turning to her daringly, “I mustn’t ask why, right?” 

She gave him a stern stare that easily straightened his spunky attitude before placing a few shiny coins into the vendor’s hand, receiving a delightful glass of cool, herbaceous tea in return. He did not truly believe that the two were in love, yet their defensive denial of his joking claims gave him a hint to their (poorly) hidden lies. Was this love? Their treachery was pure, of no ill-will, and yet teetered so dangerously at the edge of disaster. Was it exciting, he wondered – or was it absolutely horrifying, yet worth the peril. 

“Have you ever loved anyone, handservant?” He asked, the two of them paused in time by the vendors cart as everyone else seemed to jostle about with joy; booming, exuberant, and proud. The sun had set long ago, but that did not mean that the town square had chosen to settle. Rather, the sky glimmered with stars, and the land simmered with the decorative paper lanterns that were so characteristic of Hailmån. Pollen, yellow and weightless, drifted on the air like celebratory confetti for the communion, and the creatures of the night skittered around, out of sight by those that were too immersed by their good times. Glasses clank together, music sprang through the air, feet ground their rhythms into the Earth, and somewhere surely, love struck lips clashed like death awaited by the arrival of the rising sun. He wished to be knowledgeable of this kind of love; so overwhelmingly warm and intoxicating, like his days like these in the summer. He had never known it, and now it pulled him in by the gravity of his waist, ghosting over his skin to raise goosebumps and offer tempestuously alluring dreams in cold-sweat. 

“Like anyone else, I have loved.” She nodded, sipping her bitter tea, “But I assume you mean, have I ever been in love with someone.” 

“Yes.” 

“Then that, Prince, is a complicated question,” she stepped back to let an oblivious couple pass, barefooted and holding clasped hands, “For I have, but only once. And that one time will never become reality.” 

Jongin understood her easily. Though the knight was sworn to celibacy, his handservant was only to marry within the palace, perhaps to a head chef or a councilman – whomever. The palace would throw her a fanciful wedding and a plentiful feast by the likes with which she had never eaten from, and then her life would return to normal. She would have no time for babbling babies or needy husband, for her duties would forever be to the prince. Her banishment under the guise of freedom in sneaky accordance would be a source of shame forever, and she would have to flee the nation. She was trapped within the confines of destiny, though everyone liked to imagine that destiny was in the hands of the beholder. Such did not seem true to Jongin’s recently. It made him skittish; on the brink of rebellion. 

“Such are the woes of life. Living is bleak, young Prince.” 

Jongin’s attentions faltered as he caught a flash of pitch black hair in the crowd, adorned by a single braid with a red feather through rows and rows of stalls, as though he were meant to see. Their eyes met to no surprise but pleasantries, and a grin spread over his drunken face. The prince withheld a hearty chuckle as the handservant spoke beside him and, while he respected and honored her wisdom, he could not take his stare off of the handsome warrior. The two shared a gaze that made fun with no need for words, and while Jongin felt his skin singe with excitement, Chanyeol only knew the dull buzz of alcohol and the sweetly saccharine face of the prince before him who, when drunk, only became another man. When sober, he was out of his hands reach, and every night, he grew hazy of his actions, but not enough to forget what he had done. Secretly, he drank in excess to gather the courage to demand the attention of someone that could easily have him executed the very next day for such inappropriate behavior. 

A familiar, ringed hand gently tugged the warrior around, introducing him to a foreign guest that Jongin was not familiar with. The hand was of the Belic Lord, and the Belic Lady was viewing a bouquet of tulips a few stalls down (which Jongin found funny, the joke being that Belmesh had a curious obsession with all shades of red). They were greeting someone, who it was did not bother Jongin – the loss of such a becoming face on his nosy, prying eyes felt tragic. 

“…But it is up to us to make it colorful, is it not, Prince?” 

“Yes,” he snapped back, the handservant catching on to his inattention, “That is the way of the living.” 

She chose not to comment on his deficiency as he began walking away. She did follow behind closely, however, watching where his gaze fell as they traversed the lines of market stalls. Jongin subconsciously toed toward the warriors direction, occasionally catching his gaze from the odd angle. 

“Good evening, Lord,” Jongin said, intruding politely into their falling conversation, “I have been looking for you.” 

“As have we, Prince,” the Lord bowed, a graceful Lady accompanying his movement, “Is our invite to the palace still valid?” 

“It always was, and always will be,” Jongin smiled, eyes dragging over Chanyeol temporarily, “Shall we get going before night falls too deep?” 

—

The knight followed behind the trio as his handservant retreated to the depths of the palace, leaving with nothing but an odd glimpse at the warrior behind them that latched onto the prince’s shape with hopeless, hooded eyes the color of greed itself. 

“Your palace is full of wonders,” The Belic Lady commented, “Is this an Aetherian tapestry?” 

“You have a keen eye, that is correct. What gave it away?” Jongin inquires, though well-acquainted with the art itself. It had been gifted to the inner-palace walkway by Prince Sehun the day that he had decided upon his interest in wedding. 

“The baby blues and sapphire tones do give it away quite well, as you know I’m sure, because such dyes are only common in Aetheria. It is their color of choice for luxury, as well. The scenery – Adam and Eve in front of the apple tree that doomed them – it is quite a temptuous image, is it not? That seems to be the blood that flows through Aetherian art and literature; the sinful, shameless, and greedy. Though, they are a fun and easygoing people, so the waterfalls and clear blue sky ring with optimism, as though implying that their sin was a beautiful thing, the pathway to life as we know it and thereby inevitable, which makes for a sickeningly optimistic outlook on the things that most understand with guilt and contempt.” She turned at the sound of her husbands steps approaching, yet continued as her attention faded, “Nearly romantic, is it not? The apple still on the tree, the smiles on their pure faces… it all suggests the power of choice and the strength of their love and trust. Very much like the Aetherians… Yes… aren’t they quaint and seductive? Nothing like Belmesh or Hailmån, yeah?...” 

She turned to her husband, who was no longer accompanied by his knight. He described to her the marble statues and luscious gardens, the water fixture near the west wing and the fabled Epic of Man that so many travelers were desperate to see. She seemed to be absorbed in his speech and the way he articulated himself, so much so that Jongin, so used to being the center of attention, had become a fly on the wall. He did not mind, for this is how he preferred to be in public, yet the patient stare she gave him and the gentle shuffles she made toward his figure were all subtle hints at her insatiable infatuation. 

“Thank you for the gracious tour,” The Belic Lord rushed, “If you visit Belmesh, you are eternally welcome into our estate. It is not as gorgeous, but it is our home.” 

“I will keep you in my thoughts.” 

Before he could reciprocate their farewell, they had bounded off together, their fingers clasp like snug puzzle pieces, her smaller hand in his like a precious treasure. They still talked amongst each other about how they enjoyed their trip, yet Jongin sensed something tense within the way they hurried. Not with worry, but with expectancy, as though she had craved him all day. Not his physical touch, but just the sound of his voice. That seemed to be enough for her; the center of calmness and comfort. 

Jongin longed to love and be loved. 

Just then, he saw a glint or silver in the darkness and turned on his heel, as though his presence were an instinct that pulled waves of bliss through his being. 

“Are you lost, knight?” He asked. 

Chanyeol nearly jumped out of his boots, bowing in apology, “My apologies, Prince. I was looking for my Lord and Lady. Have you seen them, per chance? The Lord and I were in the garden and-“ 

“They departed without you,” Jongin chuckled, waving his hand at the hallway, “I suppose they were ready to head home. I can have one of my own palace knights show you out.” 

“Surely,” he fidgeted, scratching his head. 

Jongin noticed the hesitation in his gait, and also noticed that he was nowhere near as drunk as he had seen him previously. There was no indication that he had more than a few drinks, at most. Jongin was surprised by his sheepishness, though even more so by his own impending words. 

“Would you like a tour of the palace?” Jongin asked with a heedful gulp, and a glance up with the most sweet, sickeningly naïve smile that Chanyeol had ever laid eyes upon. 

—

“This is one of my favorite places in the palace.” 

Jongin prompted his knight to unlock the heavy, arched wooden door. A tall hallway led them into an open-roofed garden, fresh with moonlight and the pleasant, earthy scents of Hailmån. 

Here, however, at the creation of a queen from many generations ago, lay a beautiful maze of mature poppy flowers. At the center of the garden, standing with quaint antiquity, was a simple sign that read, 

‘Resilience in the face of evil.’. 

Jongin knew that Chanyeol was not inherently evil, yet his existence ripped him into contradictory halves. The part of him that was repulsed by Chanyeol’s actions; the part of him that knew that he killed for God’s cause: the reuniting of the south under one name to one day relinquish the endless slaughter. Jongin understood the principles of war and peace and that sacrifices must be made for the greater good – that even God sheds blood for his people. Yet, he could never agree. He was Hailmånish, and his blood ran like sweet honey, not boiling lava. 

This warrior made his face burn and his veins swell. When he thought of Chanyeol, he imagined that he might burst from embarrassment. Every evening, he was reminded of the heavenly glow of his skin, and the way his eyes resembled the earth beneath his feet after the torrent rains of autumn. Something about him reminded Jongin of a crackling campfire, while the rest of the southern warriors reminded him of the Inferno, all-consuming and daring. Yet, Chanyeol exuded passion and bravery, sophistication and clarity, kindness and humor… To which Jongin wanted to take part in, but would never be able to. 

He sat down in the middle of the poppy field, the clear, dark sky sparkling with the light of millions of stars, all beyond his reach. Poppy’s were a humble flower, and they reminded him to stay true to all that he was, to be humble and accept his instrumentality to God’s grand will. After all, each struggle dealt graciously would be met with reward. 

Jongin thumbed a petal between two fingers and ran his opposite hand through the soil, calling out in hopes that he would hear. 

“I can tell that your Lord and Lady are quite in love,” Jongin mumbled fondly, dangling his hand over a dangerous tangent, “It is all over the Ladies’ face. You can practically read about her qualms and pleasantries through her rare expressions.” 

“She is smitten, if I have ever witnessed it.” Chanyeol began, taking a seat in the soil beside him, “A warrior of her caliber, so brutal and strict, yet so doll-like in the Lord’s graces. She changes her moods like an Aetherian when he comes around, and as soon as he leaves she’s striking me, again, like a true Belic.” 

Chanyeol chuckled and Jongin let a shy smile slip onto his face. Though it was easy to miss, he could not help but notice the wrinkles that formed around Chanyeol’s eyes when he smiled. He scooted closer to the knight, saying, 

“Have you ever been in love like them, knight?” 

The air was chilled with wind that swept over the sea and travelled great distance for their refreshment. Chanyeol’s hair was rustled by the gust, beautiful messy amongst a thoughtful face. The knight stared at his knuckle, knitting his brow as Jongin bit his lip in anticipation. He had asked this question thrice, all for the same reason until now. He did not know what he hoped to hear. 

“Love?” He drawled, cocking his head to one side, his voice but a low mumble at the end of his sentence, “I have not loved. But, I have fallen, indubitably and hopelessly.” 

The daring knight ran a leisurely hand up the Prince’s thigh, lingering at the supple crease connecting his hip and leg. Had he been more drunk, he would have thought that the subtle tremble of the prince’s pelvis were all a hallucination. 

Though knowing the dangers of his actions, and knowing that he could be killed for touching an unmarried foreign prince, he still confidently chose to abandon all rationale. If he were to be forced under the guillotine, he would have died with the Prince’s aroma on his fingers. To the knights astonishment, Jongin did not withdraw nor call offense, and he would have argued that the humble Royal was holding his breath, being pulled into the sordid touch by his seductive gravity. 

Jongin was melting beneath Chanyeol’s touch, though his obliviousness to their predicament made him seem stiff and prudish. Prickles ran up and throughout his body, ending in bolts of lightning at his fingertips. He planted his hands into the soil below him, leaning back to open his fleshy neck to the bold knight. Undaunted, Chanyeol pushed; gentle fingers perusing his body, making their curious way up to his full lips, of which the knight admired highly. He thumbed at his upper lip, fixated, as though he could not take his eyes off of him. The way his lips parted, giving way to his index finger to insert itself, even caught him by surprise. His tongue swirled around the digit like candy, never hesitating. 

More than anything, Chanyeol was willing to beg to have the Prince’s hands on him. 

The knight tenderly touched his nose to the Jongin’s in an intimate display of affection that made the prince’s head glaze over with honey, drawing hungry lips to the older warrior in the lightest of brushes. From a touch that barely grazed skin on skin, they shared each other’s breath like the thick smoke of opium. Jongin might have known the implications of kissing a knight, yet he did not heed such warnings now. He was all but drawn into Chanyeol, as though their lips together had been written to be by whatever angel would write so tragic of a tale. 

Sweetly, Chanyeol brought his hand to Jongin’s cheek, concluding the kiss with a timid lick to his lower lip. He drew a hot, wet stripe down his neck, one hand venturing up his back to cradle his head in a gentle palm. Jongin relaxed limply into the hold, feeling a tightening in his groin as Chanyeol sucked at the base of his neck, swirling his tongue about the skin and slowly unbuttoning the innocent Prince’s tunic with a free hand. 

New to all forms of touch, every mode of intense addiction, and all means of passion, he found himself hopeless and helpless under explorative hands – hands that were too gentle as they spoiled his body; hands that did not go where they were needed most. 

Jongin’s shirt slid lazily down his shoulders, collecting stiffly at his elbows while his shawl lay asymmetrical across his trunk. Chanyeol’s heart beat with a lascivious craze. He wished to push the Prince to the ground and take his body in ways that he had never experienced, but it was not too long before he placed his mouth greedily upon the prince’s chest, his lips running up his glistening sternum and around his neck, all to meet the sensitive patch of bliss behind his ear. He could not bring himself to disturb such trustful purity, no matter his feelings. He mouthed the prince’s given name into that sinful patch, over and over like he was broken – Jongin, Jongin - groping the Prince’s body with the knowledge that this might be his last chance. 

Jongin moaned breathily into the air and, startled by his own reaction, snapped back to the present, pushing awayfrom Chanyeol and bundling his torso and shoulders in whatever clothing that he could quickly grapple onto. His face was flushed and his hair stuck to his forehead, partly because of the sticky summer heat, but mostly because of the sexual warmth they shared between their bodies. 

“I cannot do this with you,” Jongin said, standing back to his feet in a rush, his breaths a labored symphony against all-consuming silence. 

Chanyeol stood, “Prince, I-“ 

“Do not try to convince me otherwise. This is all wrong. Leave.” He was unable to look him in the eye. 

“If it is so wrong, then why did you bend to my embrace? In the eyes of Royal Law, I can understand. But, was it so wrong? Or, merely fallacious?” Chanyeol asked, standing to stare him directly in his eyes with that confident Belic glare. Though, he had grown soft for Jongin, and he lowered his voice to a subtle plead fit for a Prince, contradictorily pulling him closer by his hips, “I am but putty in your hands, Prince. I shall do whatever it is you ask of me.” 

“If such is true, you will respect that my word is law,” he snapped back, pulling away once again, “What will my people think if they discovered that I shared coitus with a Belic knight? All rules aside, do you not remember the Last War and what your people did to us? It is almost absurd that you are persistent in such a ludicrous relationship!” 

“Were we both not mere children at such a time, so long ago? I am not one of them, I was not even inducted into a troupe until I was 17.” 

“And in a few short years you have killed hundreds. I doubt that you would have refrained from taking part in the attack against my people if you were of age at such a time. Even if you are kind and gentle with me, you are still a warrior of the south.” Jongin inhaled, attempting to recover his stance, “Beside the political aspect of such a relationship, I am a Prince. You, a warrior. This was not meant to be.” 

“Oh, please. Just because you have seen me act sensitively upon you, do not so foolishly believe that you know me. Even in our circumstances, we live beneath a God who is forgiving and benevolent, and yet you fear him and what people think so much,” Chanyeol said, exasperated and wanton, though sweetness still lingered in his throat, “God would have wanted you to be happy. Didn’t Jesus allot second chances? Why must you forsake me after having flirted the entire week?” 

The knight’s words stunned the Prince - in that what he said was true, but it further complicated his moral dilemmas. He was cracking under the pressure as his worries flooded his stomach; an impending wedding, a royal death, his hold over the kingdom, and what he might make of responsibilities larger than himself. Now, he faced being charmed by a savage warrior who pledged his allegiance to a nation that was a constant threat to Hailmånish individuality. 

“But I am not Jesus, therefore I do not owe you anything,” Jongin said, “My people may look at me as such, my council may place grand expectations upon me, but I am but a boy that knows not the ways of this world.” 

Composure, a manner than he had studied in childhood, was vital to his image. How could those that depended on him remain calm if he could not, himself? 

“Thereby, heed my words, foreign knight. We cannot become an item, even if I have fallen for your saccharine charms and handsome face. We are but different individuals with different plans. I cannot commit to you, and Royal Law does not permit such ties. You must leave now.” 

Chanyeol could not prevent his open-mouthed, wide-eyed stare. His brows were stricken upward with pain, and his nose scrunched in confusion. Quicker than a lit match to spilled oil, his emotions turned from tangy citrus to bitter acid. A bit of uncertainty and helplessness became anger and hatred. Not directed toward the prince, but for the way he thought, the way he rationalized, and because the warrior knew he could not have more of the Prince and his sweeter-than-sweet ways; those holier-than-holy trembling touches. 

“Then I shall.” 

Chanyeol turned curtly, picking up his helmet before walking out of the garden and away from Jongin’s vision, but not without a glare. Jongin did not know what he saw in his eyes; a sudden loss of emotion trailed quickly by fiery rage. He had always been taught to never let anyone speak so shortly with him – especially with a voice tainted with ego and temper – without so much as a departing bow. Yet, he was relieved to see Chanyeol walk away, as though all the dilemmas he brought ran with him. 

He felt the sorrow that had lingered since his first meeting with Chanyeol saunter up to his throat. 

He had pushed him away out of an immense fear of doing wrong. 

His responsibilities to his kingdom, once again, overrode his happiness. 

However, as the knight obeyed the Prince’s order, that did not stop him from feeling immense frustration. Such an emotion was debilitating, as he desperately craved the Prince’s touch. His presence. He could feel God’s blessing radiating off of him, he remembered feeling his fingers graze his shoulder, his once tender scars now feeling… As skin, no pain. He was not sure if he longed for Jongin’s wordless sensuality and warmth, or the constant stream of healing that emanated off of his skin and made the air thick and pleasant. 

He ran a hand roughly through his hair, exhaling heavily. He could not imagine parting ways so brashly and never being entertained by the Prince’s audience ever again. He scolded himself, as though he would be better off crushing on a friend through another knight. 

“You ought to begin the journey home now. Is that not correct, Knight?” 

Chanyeol stopped in his tracks, turning to entertain the gaze of a stern handservant, brooding in the dark in her nightgown. He felt an aura of hostility rise off her skin and into the air, as though she were silently threatening him. 

“Yes, I am departing for Belmesh, now. Have a good night, madam.” 

“You know your place, foreign knight,” the handservant warned, her eyes glowing and unwavering in the darkness, “Do not approach this palace or the prince again.” 

With such sinister words, she retreated down the hall and into her chambers, the slam of her door synchronizing with a clap of thunder in the distance that made Chanyeol’s heart jump in his rib cage. He had not noticed the young rain until he looked about the stained glass. Such was summer communion; well-timed to predict the early summer showers of Hailmån. 

Upon viewing the rain hitting the glass, he could not help but notice the mural stained upon it. A weeping Jesus gruesomely pinned to a cross, a single tear rolling down his cheek. In native Hailmån, ‘Salvation’ sprawled across. Though, Chanyeol could not read it. If he could understand the Hailmånish dialect, perhaps he would have noticed that the once relieving phrase had morphed. 

‘Sacrifice’. 

—

Jongin stepped foot into his high-ceiling private bathroom. A vanity lay to his left, a rack of hand-pressed oils and towels to his right, and a handcrafted granite tub sat in the center. He lit a candle to illuminate the room, adding to the slivers of moon that crept passed the clouds and in through the tall, fogged window. The water was cool, perfect for midsummer, and he de-robed to sink into the refreshing pool, unclouded by suds and soap. Gently, he dipped his face down into the water, holding his breath, letting air escape to bubble up to the surface before he came back up, relaxing back against the wet stone. 

Simply, casually, he existed, arms crossed over his chest, and his eyes staring out of the window. For this tranquil moment, he was able to forget about Chanyeol, about his father… About the head nurse and the handservant and what they may think of him… But it was only moments before his vision was clouded by stark fantasies of the warrior; his midnight hair and abyssal eyes becoming permanent residents in his mind. 

Even if he could distract himself, the images of the warriors feature scuttled back into frame like roaches. 

His hand snuck down to his member, gripping gently, mimicking the soft and sultry touches of the helpless warrior, his fingers slowly rubbing up, and down, and up, and down. He laid his head back, raising one leg over the edge of the tub before slinking his fingers down further. He was pursuant to do it correctly this time; to find the pleasure that he knew must be there, but had no experience to be able to find. 

After minutes that felt like hours, he felt a thick buzz drift from his abdomen and up to his scalp. Exhilarating, he thought, like lightning and thunder had crashed through his frame, leaving his hair standing on end. One touch made his entire body sensitive. For the first time, he had known such pleasure. 

He inserted another finger, increasing his pace second by second until he was chasing his orgasm without abandon, stifling loud moans into heavy heaves of breathe and scrambling limbs. His thighs shook, his chest rattled, his eyelids fluttered as he fucked himself with his own hand. He felt himself nearing closer and closer to sweet release, his back arched off of the tub and his eyes fell shut as he ran his opposite palm up his length, squeezing the base to meet a blinding and unexpected release. His final moans were ripped from his chest and echoed off the walls as he attempted to calm himself down, riding out the intense waves as he jolted upward and dashed to grip the edge of the basin. He had never felt so faint from an orgasm, so worn and sated from his own hands, as though he were being touched by his new muse. 

As his breathes fell to normalcy, and as the ripples in the water became still, he relaxed back into his bath, sweat pooling about his face, neck, and shoulders. His thighs felt weak, his wrist strained, his tender opening pulsing in irritation, though the bliss eased his ride down. 

He would have fallen asleep then and there if it were not for his lingering memories of the boy he could no longer reach. 

His gaze met the moon like magnets met each other; thoughtless for now, but busy again the next day as though he had never relaxed at all. 

—

_ Prince Jongin of Hailmån,  _

_ It is with regret that I am to inform you that I will not attend the summer communion this year. As the seasons will change and summer has arrived, my wife, queen of Belmesh, has just given birth to my first born son. I am beyond elated and could not give up these first few moments of my sons waking days.  _

_ I will be sure to make it up to you when I pay a visit to your father. Until then, I hope that our political relations remain in tact, and I will keep the King of Hailmån in my Sunday prayers.  _

_ As summer falls, I will make my way to your kingdom. I wish to pray over the king.  _

_ Regards,  _

_ Wu Yi Fan, Emperor of Belmesh  _

Jongin tucked the letter into his desk drawer, making a reminder to mark the royal calendar for the emperors arrival, sometime in early Fall. 

He sat on the floor on his knees near the edge of his bed and clasped his hands together, bowing his head in prayer as he did every night. He prayed for all that he had cursed, hoping for change rather than denial and deviation. He, again, prayed over his fathers perpetual health, and prayed over the man he had not been able to keep his thoughts off of. 

Show me a sign, he pleaded, Tell me, by whatever vice, who I am destined to be with. 

Even so, he prayed for himself. He prayed for strength, for guidance, to know his responsibilities and carry them out well. 

He felt directionless, spineless, empty. His entire personality was crafted to serve the kingdom, to where he felt as though he no longer knew who he truly was. He wanted to be more than this – he knew he must be more than this. 

With a swift blow, he extinguished the candle upon his bedside table and slid into bed, falling into a deep, sorrow-driven and heavy sleep. 

That night, the prince dreamed of greeting the warrior in the poppy garden on a serendipitous and sunny day, two glinting wedding bands around their fingers, and serene smiles spread across their faces. He held Jongin’s face so gently, as though he would be crushed under his normal grasp; the man held power that Jongin could only dream of, and the Prince possessed a touch that would leave the warrior addicted. Forever. He touched his nose to his, demanding but the tenderest of kisses, closer and closer, until… 

—

The next morning, Jongin had risen the earliest he had in a long time. Long before the handservant, in fact, who rose even before the roosters. He still ached from the night prior, and a dull tug pained his chest. With whatever might he could muster, he stood from his bed, greeting the dawn with a frown. He felt as though he could sleep no longer as a restless jitter struck. 

Reluctantly, he traipsed down to the town square – alone – and walked the promenade in silence. As the last day of summer communion came to a close, the once luscious poppy petals had withered and curled within themselves, taking on the brown and black hues of rot and decay. The wax in the street lanterns had been depleted, and the only light was that of the sun that just barely peeked over the horizon. Empty mugs of water and abandoned dancer shoes littered the streets, most likely by tired and innocently drunken spirits, to be gathered ashamedly the next day; reminiscent of the last day of festivities. How desolate and gloomy, he thought, were the empty streets. They were no different than the palace. 

As the royals and nobles trickled sparsely into the town square to bow to the prince and bid their farewell, Jongin made sure to return their kindness with words he thought a king would say, even if he knew not what that truly meant. He hoped to mask his sadness with false confidence, a face of his that many believed was truly him. 

It was merely a fake, a farce, a lie. 

The warrior, accompanied by his quiet nobles, thanked him and briefly placed his hand between the prince’s shoulder blades when his escort turned their backs to walk toward their horses, patting once firmly before departing. Expectedly, neither could look up to meet the others face. The Prince, so starved of touch, felt his legs shake and an unfamiliar feeling swell in his chest. Thusly, he had decided that this would be one of the many things that he would remember the knight by. 

“Prince Jongin.” 

He turned to see the Queen of Aetheria, a little less done-up in today’s heat, but no less regal. Her blonde hair spiraled around her form in big curls and her skin was so pale Jongin wondered how she had not been burnt to a crisp in the Hailmånish sun. She reminded him not of Sehun, as she was much softer-looking, so he assumed he must take after his father. Her dress was of a pale blue cotton with a bodice of golden shards and wispy, deep blue chiffon drifting about her skirt into the tiniest of trains. Her sleeves were long and billowed at the ends; her eyes, a girlish gray, punctured his soul. 

“Greetings, Queen.” 

He bowed deeply and held his form for several seconds before rising, a custom for greeting the King and Queen of Aetheria. 

“I came to bid you a kind farewell,” she said, her voice but a gentle, angelic push of air, like an all-knowing goddess, “And to see to it that you are well after this arduous week of appearances and village upkeep. Even though you are no longer a boy, I still brought you Aetherian sweets.” 

She held out a small, decorative bag and giggled at Jongin’s delight. On her visits to Hailmån in his childhood, she had always made sure to bring sweets for the Prince. While he had long since grown out of his taste for sugary treats, he was beyond elated to receive the gift. The Queen paid great attention to detail and was fluidly thoughtful, reminiscent of a distant aunt with great intentions, but so little time. Her appearance made her seem trustworthy, but her actions proved her kindness. 

“I appreciate the thoughtful gesture, Queen. Furthermore, I am fairing excellently. If I may ask, did you enjoy the week?” 

She smiled genuinely, “That is good to hear. I have thoroughly enjoyed myself, so thank you, young Prince. My son is very apologetic to not be available, I’m sure he is still fretting about it now.” 

“Really?” Jongin blushed, “I… He sent me a letter detailing his absence.” 

“Oh?” Her eyebrows raised in a manner that almost slipped Jongin’s senses, “What did he say?” 

“Only that he will be gone,” he replied, remembering the details of his secret letter, “And not much else. But I expected to meet you, Queen.” 

“I would not miss your land’s communion for anything. I haven’t missed one in the last two decades, though I am getting older. You were very good at evading my sight this week, as I’m only finding you now. It is good to know that you are such good friends with my son. I was not so aware.” 

“He is a good person,” Jongin nodded, fatigued by the continuous heat. 

“I love to hear compliments on his behalf,” she nodded, “Alright, well I will be going. It was good to see you, it was as though you were just a young boy yesterday, and now you have become such a respectable and adult Prince.” 

Jongin bowed once more, bidding her a formal farewell before she stopped in the midst of the crowd to say, 

“And tell your father that the King of Aetheria is sorry to not have been able to come.” 

And then, she was gone. Dispersed within the crowd like a foggy after-thought, her blue dress billowing in the wind like floating dandelions, trailed by goddess-like blonde ringlets. 

—


	3. A Letter from the Prince of Aetheria I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🌹💫

_ “_

_Soothingly   
_

_ Softly  _

_ Tenderly  _

_ A silken slur of sweet symphonies  _

_ A bitter bite into bliss  _

_ My only truth within a bubbling cauldron of lies  _

_ You call my name in silence,  _

_ Your echo never touches my ears  _

_ You look at the sky with attention  _

_ That gaze will never sear my skin  _

_ I want to hold what is left of you when I destroy it all,  _

_ Dandelions in the wind – loose strings from your hem  _

_ These memories are mine, and mine alone  _

_ Though autumn is intruding, winter will prevail  _

_ These leaves will die for me, the snow will fall in your honor  _

_ For what power in this life dare stop your allure  _

_ To hold you is to hold time  _

_ To leave is to be nothing at all”  _

_ With Love,  _

_ Oh Sehun _

__  


Jongin held the letter to his naked chest, lit by candlelight and something more. His hair still dripped from the bath, droplets hitting the floor in uneven beats. Hurrying to get dressed, he slipped into cotton pajamas and padded into bed, hiding the cherished poetry beneath his pillow to guide him to good dreams. 

Within his veins his blood pulsed in gushes, like floods from a landslide. There was no cure for the ways with which Sehun enthralled him. 

Many would fly into a wild craze to see the Prince. 

_ All Sehun had to do was put pen to paper, and he drove him to shambles.  _


	4. Autumn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short bridge into the winter solstice and the happenings of autumn; the season of decay and decline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a shorty + an incoming letter chapter 💣💫 but chapter 6 is gonna be a long and important one, I couldn’t help myself c:

# 

CHAPTER IV: Autumn

__

_“Why are you so forgiving?”_

_  
_

_“Because suffering is indiscriminate, Prince.”_

~

Summer had rolled over onto its haunches and slid away for the fast-approaching autumn showers. The trees sank and shriveled, their leaves painting the streets of Hailmån in vibrant hues of decay, while the clouds closed out the sun and sky in favor of downtrodden days in melancholy. At this time, everyone gathered their fall harvests and began making preserves for winter, whereas the palace sought to make some agricultural changes. Though difficult to carry out in the kings frail state, the councilmen assumed partial control at the discretion of the prince.

Though he would not admit to his hunches, it seemed as though the councilmen took more and more control as the seasons passed. Understandably, someone needed to take the action that the king could not. However, they were never formally handed secondary control, and it seemed that what they did through the palace were kept secret from Jongin. Yet, they yielded to the Prince’s persistence and allowed his handservant to become his honorary right-hand woman in due time. Such changes could not come soon enough, and that was very obvious via the various issues that plagued Hailmån discreetly, such as economic inequality and homelessness on the outskirts – as though tiers were forming between the people. Jongin knew that this was not how it ought to be, yet he wondered if he could do any better. Honestly, wholly truthfully, he was floundering through the dark on a basis of knowledge that extended no further than his pathetic reach.

In that time, however, the prince did not merely wallow in his own pity. He took to the library often, rising earlier with each day to recover years of information as quickly as possible. If they were not already in close quarters, his handservant became even closer, as she quizzed him on current affairs and other kingdoms. She knew more than he had originally thought, which was already a great deal. It seemed, however, that no matter how much he studied, there was always something complex and new that would take days to commit to memory. Though demotivating and tiring, he pushed with perseverance. If this were to be his purpose, he would execute it efficiently and then some. It was all he knew.

In the meantime, Prince Sehun’s letters grew evermore chaotic and desperate. His neverending and bottomless sweet tellings became aggressive and wanton imagery. His sweet rhymes and lines that made Jongin buzz elatedly were now raw premonitions of a man who grappled for scraps; to be able to even smell the prince’s inviting aroma, the thought brought him to an edge that he could no longer contain nor deny. These letters oozed pure sin and dripped sticky with lust, but that was an intimacy between the two so private that they thought not of it. As Sehun and his father collected their plans for their trip to the north – their kingdom, of course, being torn into two at the mere idea – he found himself needing fresh air more often, retiring to bed earlier, and being clouded by his all-too-brief memories of the tanned Prince with the divinely human aura.

The Queen of Aetheria had returned not long after departing Hailmån, and she had begun to think that Sehun had come down with a fever. He felt feverish, surely, but not by way of any official ailment that the palace doctors could cure. Only the eastern Prince could contain his disease, and Jongin was aware of this.

As Sehun’s intentions became all the more real to Jongin, Chanyeol had begun to slowly phase out of his present and future. He knew he would never forget him, but he figured that all crushes not acted upon would remain forever or fade away, and he certainly did not have forever to lay in waiting for a man that he could not have and would most likely never come back. Though it felt so long ago, Jongin still remembered that fearsome hatred in his eyes. Ashamedly and unadmittedly, he found it oh-so-handsome – he quivered beneath such terror in ways he never had. It was impossible to hold a grudge and, furthermore, such trivialities were not in Jongin’s nature. 

Forgive and forgo; the way of all humble men.

That day, as always, Jongin roamed the surrounding villages. The leaves crunched beneath his horses’ feet with a loud snap, amplified by the emptiness of the area. Once summer ended and the cold began to take effect – which it did rather unforgivingly – people began retreating into their homes more and more often until they were snowed in and trapped until Spring saved them. Like the bears of the forest, they stayed within their homes and rationed for an optimistically bright future.

“Shall we take a venture into the outskirts? The distant villages severely need attention, or so I have heard.”

“Is that really a wise decision to make?” A palace knight carefully cautioned, “The outskirts are vicious and we run the risk of getting into a potentially fatal altercations.”

“The devil is vicious, no Hailmånish man ought to be more dangerous than you allow him to be.”

“With all due respect, Prince, you have never been. Neither I nor my two fellow knights have, either. Truly, demonstratively, the outskirts are a savage land, border lining a warring village. It is nothing like the villages near the palace. If we were to go, we need more hands. Even so, I do not know a palace knight that can tell a coherent tale of their visit.”

“Then who might have been?” Jongin asked confidently, warranting shifting looks amongst the green knights.

“If anyone, then... An elder knight, I suppose.” 

“If even. I think a few of the Elder knights were born one generation too late to brave the journey.” Another knight chimed.

“How curious,” Jongin said pensively, “In that case… We shall cruise the border into the outskirts. Our next bound into its heart will be more prepared.”

“But, Prince-“

“I will not resign my position on this,” the Prince interrupted, “I will have them neglected no longer. What if you lived in those conditions? Would you not feel forsaken by those that ignored your struggle?”

Just then – and at the relief to the trio of knights – the sound of violent galloping echoed through the streets, neighs whinnied with strength, and the crashing of metal on metal broke the still air. Windows clamored open as the villagers curiosity got the best of them, and it was then that Jongin turned to see one of his Elder Knights out of breath and adrenaline-ridden.  
_‘You must go see the king’_ were the only words to escape him.

~

Jongin sat before the kings bedroom door on his knees, hands fisted tightly into the fabric of his trousers. He had pushed past his frantic messenger, through a wave of concerned and aggressive knights, and even further past some persistent infirmary staff that lingered in the hallway in front of his fathers door. As the blood rushed to his head, his hearing became nothing but an incessant ringing that turned the cautionary exclamations into a tinny murmur. His vision came and went in a retreating vignette and he shook in cold sweat as he waited for something that would never come, for he had to do it himself. 

The hallway had cleared out long ago, but he still bit his lip and inhaled shakily to fight back fear. He flinched at nothing, cringed at himself, lunged toward the door with his hand on that steel handle. It was covered in dust, as though no one had went or entered in two days.

Despite this, he knew his father was alive. In the event of his death, three rings from the bell tower in the town square would reverberate through-and-through until word of mouth reached even the hardest of hearing. It would spread like wildfire, and he would be the first to understand. He held his breath on Sunday’s whenever the bell rang twice for morning service as though he had not heard it at the same time every week for his entire life.

“I cannot do it.”

He sensed the handservant behind him, her arms crossed and her eyes stoney as he always imagined her in his head. 

“You must.”

_“I can’t.”_

“And instead you will do what?”

His voice, the shyest of whispers, 

_“Rot in my own cowardice.”_

The handservant stomped toward the Prince and pulled him from the floor with a vicious grip to his collar, all to lunge at him and bring a savage backhand to his cheek, the impact curling down the corridors on an echo that reminded him of the moment long after it had passed. His cheek stung like the prod of a scorpion, but that was no worse than the salty tears that itched his eyes and shamelessly threatened to spill over.

_“Insufferable.”_

A harsh scowl stretched across her face. As always, Jongin was able to read them and, in her eyebrows, the lines on her forehead, and the corners of her lips, he read perfervid disappointment.

She rushed away, her frock whipping in her wake. The Prince was once in a daze, and now staring a stark clarity in the face. Inevitable tears at the sting of her hit may have clouded his eyesight, yet his minds’ eye saw with foresight.

It is tiring to always be in fear of what you must live alongside. He unbuttoned the topmost button of his white and gold tunic, able to breath fresher air without the inhibitingly starchy fabric. Still, he found himself gasping with a hand to his swelling cheek. It was clear that the handservant was growing weary of the prince’s evasive maneuvers, and her enervate posture for the last two seasons had become a stark contrast to her lost boldness and strong character.

He could not do it. Even if this made him a failure in her eyes.

He could not breath.

~

“Have you visited my father yet, knight?”

Jongin’s voice was no more than a tremble in the dark, growing soft in the overhead lanterns. Features slack and defeated, he sat with Kyungsoo in Mehan, a busy town second-closest to the palace known for hearty food and craft such as carpentry. They made the best savory dishes, in Kyungsoo’s opinion.

“Of course,” he said, staring at his hands, “Both I and the other nine Elder Knights.”

“And of his condition?”

“You should go see him for yourself, Prince.”

“I cannot bring myself to,” he admitted, holding his face in his hands, “I am not sure as to what brings me this anxiety. All I know is that, no matter how hard I push myself, seeing my father brings me to a point that feels as though I will shatter into a millions pieces, unable to become whole again.”

“And you will regret it accordingly.” The knight sighed, straightening his posture, “You feel lost, no? Overwhelmed, perhaps. As a young boy, I was prone to the same habits, and very much lost to the cause of continual success without failure; an unattainable condition. It is a trap, it is not real. You are only wasting time to fear when your father is…”

Jongin looked at Kyungsoo expectantly without knowing what to expect. His face was but a canvas to be drawn on, the only paints being distress and misery.

“The Emperor of Belmesh is arriving tomorrow. Eat well, sleep well, and see to it that you greet your father before the evening reaches midnight.” The knight rolled up his sleeves, thanking their waitress, “I will not be responsible for this.”

Crickets chirped from a bush nearby and the market began to flood with hungry citizens, overflowing to nearly cover the knights reserved voice.

“It pains me to see you hurt, Prince. So, I will not be responsible for your despair by being sheltering and kind. I cannot see to it this time.”

The prince was not hungry, but he forced himself to eat.

~

Sickeningly full and growing tired, Jongin stood outside of his fathers bedroom. There was nothing stopping him but his mind and the wood betwixt them. Rather, his fear was an anticipatory anxiety. What would he do when he entered? Would his father react with that same absent complacency? Will it haunt him forever? An optimistic scenario did not bless him, for his father had shown himself to be anything but an optimistic idea.

Yet, he breathed in and persisted. He pushed the door open slowly as to not wake him in the instance he were asleep. His curtains were drawn completely, shutting out all of the impeding moonlight and the balcony. Was he even here? Was he even awake? Question upon question dashed through Jongin’s mind and crawled around the crevices in his brain, never pausing, never allowing him time to breath out and feel decent.

He merely made his way around an impossibly cracked door and slid in, pushing it closed in silence behind him.

At his fathers bedside in a wooden chair was the head nurse holding a small oil lamp. She gave him a glance and a bow that she could muster while sitting before waving him over, gently, as though disturbing the air would wake the king. Creeping on regal oak floors, Jongin made his way, never breathing, never blinking, never believing that he was really there. He did not exist singularly.

Upon drawing closer, he was struck with pity. The head nurse looked as though she had not slept a thorough wink in the last week. Darkness clouded her eyes like the storms of Armageddon, the paleness of her skin made her seem dead, and it seemed as though she had time to wash all but her hair, as it lay in a sloppy bun, sinking down to her neck. 

She not only seemed physically weary, but utterly and erratically drained of all energy, mental, emotional, or otherwise.

“You came.”

Jongin nodded as he sat on the floor beside his fathers bed. He dare not look at him, only at the floor beneath him. One look upward, and he would take the first glance upon his fathers face in the last two years.

“I did not expect you to.” She whispered, “Though your Elder Knight told me he would try.”

Though she were but a corpse walking, Jongin could sense a smile in her words. Perhaps it was not joy, but it was a gentle pride – a motherly praise. Something so small, so sweet, brought Jongin to tears without cries. One and then two tears became a stream, yet he neither sniffled nor swore. It was all a pain too cursed to cry aloud for. These bottled emotions would remain as personal nightmares.

“My father,” Jongin began, his voice a softened tremble, “How is he?”

“Alive, and that is all I can say for certain. Leprosy took his left leg and arm. We worked day and night to salvage what we could. It was all in vain. Nothing would have saved it.”

Jongin sank into the side of his fathers bed, a sighing cry pulled from his throat by the cold claws of realization. The head nurse watched the ongoing tragedy before her, the empathy she carried was more than enough for all, yet this could bring her to tears. Strength, however, in the face of all challenges, was the strongest point of a nurse. The previous head nurse taught her this above all else.

“I am sorry.”

The head nurse placed a gentle hand upon the prince’s shoulder and squeezed gently. Jongin brought his hand to meet hers, never letting her remove her grip. He sobbed uncontrollably and buried his face in his father’s sheets; they smelled of his mothers favorite scent from his childhood - saffron. He could not dare to look. But, he was not so closed away and emotionless as to not mourn for him. The Prince was an exploding palette of colorful emotions, it was only that he had always been taught to repress them. 

“What is left of him?”

“He has been as he always has. Not very responsive, but still a man, no less. Now, he bears the brunt of his injuries. If he can survive this, he may heal well for the first time in a long time. That does not necessarily entail, however, that he will be… How he once was, all those years ago.”

“I have been selfish, nurse.”

“You have prayed, I assume.”

“Ever morning, every evening.”

“And it is only natural that you would.”

She brought her fingers into the Prince’s hair, rubbing at his scalp and brushing tangles from the brown locks. 

“I cannot even bear to look at him,” he said melancholically, “This is all my fault. He suffers because of me; because I cannot let go. Because I am too weak. I never intended for his fate to become one of pain and decay.”

“But it is not your fault, for you do not control the universe.”

_“Why are you so forgiving?”_

“Because suffering is indiscriminate, Prince.”

Jongin pulled from her warm hand and stood without so much as a quick glance at his father. Bidding a farewell to the head nurse, he exited without acknowledging her bow. She needn’t bow to him, and he had made that clear long ago. It was all a pretentious formality forced upon her.

The handservant knew that the Prince had as much power to keep him alive as he had to strike him down; such was the blessing of his lineage. His hands were just shy of the universe, for he prayed to a God that showed no favoritism, and still gained his blessing. It was only his time to understand that letting his past slip from his grasp was not a pain; it was a relief. The likes of which was more refreshing than a cold drink on a hot day or a warm meal after being trapped in the rain.

Outside of his fathers room stood, as always, the most important piece to the Epic of Man. Only, Jongin had noticed that what was once ‘Salvation’ now read as ‘Sacrifice’. Though he was too tired to manage to care, he would see it again in his dreams, only to be daunted by them the next day.

That night, however, Jongin did not sneak into the palace church to pray upon his father. The opposite, in fact. He went to bed, unchanged, unshowered, and unrelaxed, hoping to wake up a decade prior, when he was too naïve to care.

~

“Prince, are you awake?”

Jongin arose to a muffled voice the likes of his messenger. It was still dark out, and with a groggy mind about him, he had to wonder what brought news at such a time.

“What is the matter, messenger?” He called, still half asleep.

“The Emperor is arriving, today,” he voiced through the heavy door, “Your handservant is at a standby to get you ready, meanwhile, breakfast is being made. The seamstress has finished your new tunic, as well, and everything should be finished around 12pm, an hour before the Emperor arrives.”

“And what time is it now?”

“7AM, Prince.”

The Prince was not one to rise early, but he was also not one to reject his responsibilities.

“I suppose the handservant is on her way?”

“Yes, Prince.”

“So be it. I will wait for her, farewell.”

“Farewell.”

Jongin waited for his messengers footsteps to fade off before he groaned tiredly, dragging himself to the bathroom to bathe and wash his hair before she could beat him to it. She insisted upon scrubbing his skin to redness and washing his hair with special tinctures that smelled like the old councilmen and were supposed to be ‘on the more mature spectrum of scents and perfumes’ for special occasions.

Yet, he was thoroughly surprised to not see her waiting in his chamber as she typically would for special visitations. The drama from the night prior may not have been a vivid memory, but the embarrassment of it all lingered like tobacco on the air. He truly hoped that she would send a servant to dress him, rather than marching up herself. The prince was not ready to welcome her actions, and knowing the handservant, he knew that she was probably still upset. Not as in rage or frustration, but as in disappointment.

The door cracked open and peeled back before being shut with a muffled slam. She had come, regardless, as she was meant to do. ongin admired the new tunic fondly with occasional glances as the handservant set down her things, praising its design in his head for only him to hear. As much as he wished to make peace with her, he knew she was not ready. Though disciplined and rigid, she was the type that needed to ride out her emotions; they could not be quelled and one would be hard pressed to force her into true submission. Beneath her servitude burned individuality, and her feelings were the last things she had been allowed to keep.

Unhindered humanity was hard to find within the palace.

She stripped him of his towel and pulled the many layers over, buttoning and clasping where it must be done, hemming ends with pins where it was appropriate. Lastly, she brought the new cape around his shoulders – a beautiful brownish burgundy - before tying the lapels together with a firm tug. Record time.

Though she had finished, to Jongin’s surprise, she lingered in smoothing out the minuscule wrinkles on his shoulders. Long enough for Jongin to notice that her hair smelled like bitter aloe instead of that medicinal mixture she swore religiously by.

“The head nurse told me that you visited your father.”

“Of course.”

“Good.”

She patted his chest once and took away his dirty clothes from the night prior, leaving with a formal bow and no glance in his direction. She was once this formal all the time, rejecting the very idea of even looking him in the eye, as it was considered rude. Yet, Jongin felt it to be too close to God. The handservant knew he needed the affection, and could not deny him that for too long. 

On the other hand, she was also not one to apologize. However, she knew that she had crossed the line between servant and Prince by taking her hand to him, and she was aware of the repercussions. Jongin could not care less.

If she could not fathom having her own children, she would nurture Jongin the best way she knew how – even if she were trained all her younger years to be the prince’s right-hand servant, not a loving mother. These events left Jongin feeling empty in his room, though he understood that his beloved servant was awful at expressing herself. 

The rest of the day crawled by on broken legs, where the minutes felt like hours and the hours felt like days. As it turned out, the Emperor wanted nothing to do with the Prince. He had arrived under his nose and was escorted to the King’s chamber. Rather, he mingled with his party of nobles. 

It was a clear reminder that, no, Jongin was not yet a King, and he would be treated as such. A Prince’s duties were much below that, and it were as if he had forgotten his place after so many years. He was just a Prince for now. To think otherwise was to get much too far ahead of himself.

Only now did Jongin waver outside. He would not enter, yet he would stand motionless to smell the sandalwood incense that wafted below the door and into the hallway. He could hear faint praying from a softly whispering, deep voice that spoke in a language Jongin had never touched nor heard. It was ironic, to him, that the day he accepted handing his father over, someone else came to try to breath life into a man that was already half dead and worsening.

It was there that he remembered the curious changing of the mural, and turned at just the right moment to meet his Elder Knight, seemingly on his way elsewhere, though his intent stride was only for the Prince.

“Knight Kyungsoo,” he whispered, the knight bowing properly as he always did, “Where is it you are off to?”

“I came to guard your fathers bedroom entryway, but now that I have found you, Prince, I must ask you a question that has been nagging me all season.”

Though his speech was confident, he kept quiet under the presence of prayer in the adjacent bedroom. The two stood in the bulky fragrance, that same voice that must have belonged to the Emperor murmuring away. Kyungsoo hesitated, wondering if this were truly the time. Yet, he was always somewhere the Prince was not, and he hurried in that he could wait no longer.

“When you kissed me during summer communion, Prince,” he began, looking him eye-to-eye, “Was that so chaste? Was it merely a trial? Or, rather, was it more?”

“Dear knight,” he whispered, “It was nothing more than an odd joke, I suppose. Why does it will you?”

“Well, that is difficult for me to understand, myself.”

They stood in stewing semi-silence again, and it was then that Jongin realized the devastating power that came with throwing things around that one could not continue to reciprocate; as though he had played with his Knights emotions in ways he had never meant to. Pity is what he felt as he noticed the small fidget in Kyungsoo’s foot; unorthodox from a man who never falters. He must remember that, though he may think of them to be friends, it could never be. The imbalance of power, his position within the kingdom, the fact that Kyungsoo was celibate and could never accept a Prince’s friendship, etc… 

“It was inappropriate of me,” Jongin nodded with eyebrows upturned, “I apologize, dear Knight. It was not my intention to become the source of your concerns in such a way.”

“May I- Again, Prince,” he interjected abruptly and sharply, “One last time.”

“And what are your intentions? How bold of you to ask for such a thing.”

“To know,” he whispered.

Caught off guard, Jongin flinched at his knights’ hands on his hips and his face dangerously close to his, and it was no more than a brief moment before hungry lips devoured his own and stole his breath away. 

He yielded to it.

He had never seen his knight so passionate about anything other than his work.

Kyungsoo pushed him against his father’s bedroom door, to which Jongin brought tender fingertips to the base of his neck. The touch sent a thick pulse through Kyungsoo’s body – less like a shockwave, and more like a gentle rumble from fingertip to skin. It sent his head reeling into blinding whites and catching blacks, and a moan spilled over into the Prince’s welcoming mouth past wet and sticky lips that tasted of a sweet, honey balm. Just as the last time they had kissed and he had snaked his hands around Kyungsoo, the feeling returned tenfold.

Was this the healing touch of the Prince? No, truly, was this what it felt like? Was it meant to feel so orgasmic? Was it meant to leave the knight so unforgivingly addicted to the memory of it? These thoughts passed like lightning in Kyungsoo’s head before they were nothing again. Nothing; the Prince in his hold, on his lips, and then oblivion everywhere else. 

They rutted against each other needfully, gently rustling the loose hinges on the door behind them. Jongin inhaled heavily upon Kyungsoo pushing his tunic back to press his lips into his shoulder, relishing the salty taste of his skin. The Prince knew it was wrong, but his virgin senses, new to such saturated and steamy sensuality, quickly bended into hungry lips and callous hands. Even if he found himself diffident and swelling by the knights’ actions, he knew that submission to the present was only a road down worse.

“Knight Kyungsoo,” Jongin gasped softly, trying to hold him at a distance, “What is the meaning of this?”

“I cannot explain it with words,” he whispered, kissing with fervor, “It is your touch, it is mythical.”

“Whatever do you mean?” 

The Prince’s face displayed the clearest of doubts Kyungsoo had ever seen. He was one to humor the unfathomable and accept the unthinkable, but for his closest Elder Knight to hold him so intimately and proceed to speak in nonsensical ways were too much to become open-minded of. Kyungsoo figured that if he could not make himself clear now, nothing would ever be the same.

“Look.”

Kyungsoo held Jongin’s hand in his, guiding it to a small sunburnt patch on his cheek. Warmth quelled below the Prince’s palm and numbed the area like anesthetic. Below such an angelic touch, the knight shivered from head to toe before removing his hand. What was once a ruddy and uneven sunburn had become soft, clear skin – in wordless shock, Jongin gently fingered the area, so perplexed as to not understand that, indeed, he healed him.

“Do you see what I speak of?”

Jongin could not speak.

_“It is incomprehensibly addictive.” _He admitted, “And though I know it is wrong, I have craved it ever since that day.”

Jongin ran a delicate finger around the shell of his knights’ ear and watched him shudder in return. Said finger ran down his ear lobe and over his neck before settling on his shoulder to brush some dirt away.

“I did not know that I had such an ability.”

“I assume it is from your lineage,” Kyungsoo replied, his heartbeat catching at uneven beats, “Your father, once, was known for his healing miracles.”

Jongin crossed his arms and side-stepped the knight, upset by the mention of his father and removed from their moment.

“I will not approach you like this again, Prince, I can make that promise,” he whispered into his ear, stepping backward and away.

Kyungsoo marched down the hall, almost forgetting about his duty to guard the King’s door. And like that, Jongin’s senses began to fade back in – the sunlight stung his eyes and it seemed as though the prayer in the background had grown louder. How long had they been there? Minutes? Hours? He could not decipher between time nor space as he pieced together what all had happened. He felt drained and exhausted, much more than usual.

Glancing upward, he was reminded of what he had noticed the night previous. Squinting to view the script past glaring sunlight hindered only by dyed glass, he read those words once more:

Sacrifice.

He stared for a bit longer before turning to walk away. This life was not one of grandiose surprises and play-worthy twists. It was merely the culmination of events that brought one from this moment to the next. No one was special, not even he.

~

Jongin sat by the pond in a garden in the eastern wing, created to honor a first-born princess destined to be Queen that had died in her youth. He knew not of these people, but he remembered their stories. This particular garden was rather small, but it was among his favorites because it was outside and bordered a small pond that sheltered goldfish and lily pads. It had been reduced to grass and daisies at some point, though it once blossomed with a plethora of species. 

In his lonesomeness, everyone else gathered to eat dinner in the servants’ dining hall. He often waited for the knight to take him to eat in the villages, lest he was doomed to eat alone in the royal hall. 

The news was just a bit too much to process at the moment. The changing of the glass, the blessing he had held for so long and never knew of, his father’s condition… What might he make of three confusing pieces that did not fit together nor make sense amongst each other? 

Furthermore, he had so seldom brought his hands to another individual that his abilities had only come to light now. ‘How solitary’ he thought, for how often did he find himself starved of contact and restless to break free from the royal chains?

“Good evening, Prince.”

The handservant rounded the bench Jongin sat upon and bowed before taking a seat with good distance between them.

“Good evening.”

“The Emperor departed an hour ago and he left his graces and gifts of gold. As for now, your supper is getting cold,” she said, “But I believe you must have something on your mind to be here.”

“Many things,” he murmured pensively, “The Epic of Man has changed.”

“Changed? How so?”

“The final piece to the mural that stands before my fathers door reads ‘sacrifice’.”

The handservant frowned and screwed her eyebrows together, slack coming to her posture as she pondered what the Prince has said.

“If you do not believe me, I urge you to go see for yourself, handservant.”

“It is not that I don’t believe you, only that I’m trying to remember what I had been told long ago about the Epic of Man,” she groaned, “That’s it, yes. It has been written that it has changed in the past, as though God communicates to us through it. The Bible, for example, is written in mans ink. Gods’ angels do not make themselves known to mortals. But, this glass is the story of Gods son from his own mouth. You remember where it was first recovered from, yes?”

“Disciple John’s humble church.”

“Indeed. But it had been vulnerable to ransacking and thieves after many centuries, thereby it was brought to the palace long ago for protection. I do not think that removing it from the church changes it’s properties. I also do not know if the message is meant for you. Yet, such a powerful phrase… who else could it be meant for?”

“Do you think it may be referencing my father?”

“Your father, perhaps. Maybe, it is a forewarning to the future rather than the present.”

“How do I know for certain? How do I know that my sacrifice is for good and not evil?”

“There is no such thing as certain in life, Prince.”

The two stared at the setting sun over a horizon of rolling hills topped by grand trees collecting to create a thick forestry. This was the side of the palace that did not face another village for miles, and it did well in being the most tranquil face.

“I am growing tired of so much uncertainty,” the Prince admitted, “Within myself, within others, within the future.”

“As we all do.” She stood, bowing once again, “Dinner is waiting.”

Jongin pardoned her and sat just long enough to hear the entry door shut behind him. As he walked down the empty palace walls, chatter from the servants’ fading in and out upon turning corners, he understood that he need not to rebel, only to turn himself over to fate, and to allow his instrumentality to shape him into what he need be to bring about change. The winter solstice would arrive, he would meet Sehun for the first time in the past year or so, he would meet the southern Emperor for the first time ever, and he would soon take the throne now that he no longer supported his father in prayer.

He ate his dinner alone, in silence.

His life was made for sacrifice.

_‘Sickening’._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deadass? I’ve been picturing RV Joy as the head nurse and RV Irene as the handservant 👀👩🏻🌾


	5. Letters From the Prince of Aetheria II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kk, bye-bye for now. The good news? Chanyeol comes back next chapter! The bad news? It’s really long, I haven’t edited it yet, and I’m going to college in two days. If you sit still enough and hold your breath, it’s fabled that you can hear me crying :,-)  
I’ll miss it! 🌧🌧🌧☔️🌨🌩🌨

_“My dearest Prince of the East,_

_There is not a second that goes by in my day where I cannot help but envision you and those deep brown eyes. Your lips intrude my manners, your beautiful features evade my morality, and your body is a sight that I ache to view. A muse to outshine all muses, for the end of every Saturday brings my quill to parchment with words meant only for your sight. _

_I recently received one of your letters – you mentioned that you keep my correspondence in your desk and that you re-read them in between new sendings. Sweeter than honey is what you are, and I am undeserving to hold your appreciation in my hands._

_Tell me, do you think of me? Surely, you are always on my mind, shrouding my thoughts, rewriting my plans. Everything I do has you fit in like you are a piece to my puzzle; the crucial key to all I must complete, for I would be incomplete without you._

_I am bringing gifts with me, thereby I can only hope that you enjoy them as much as I enjoy the thought of presenting them to you._

_I must say, I want to hold you in my arms as you shiver at my fingers and cry your chaos into me. I want to taste every inch of you, to seethe in your essence, hectic, gasping for air, and collapsing. I need my hands on your hips, taking you in my mouth, over and over again until you spill over. I need to be inside of your sticky warmth, to feel you feel me, to be the one that pushes you over and takes you, to be the one that pulls salacious mumbling from your innocent lips._

_I am in a craze, perhaps a sickness, or perhaps this is just love grown wild and untamed. Your hair disheveled, sighing into the void, and so satisfied because of me – I have awoken from many a dream where I steal you away and ruin everything that you are. I have an intense desire to spoil, devastate, frustrate, and destroy you; but worry not, for I mean this in the gentlest, most private of ways. _

_Do you fear me, my Prince?_

_You should._

_With Love and Lust and Overwhelming Restraint,  
Oh Sehun, Prince of Aetheria_

Jongin was beginning to be unable to bear these letters, as though Sehun’s impatience had, too, become his own reality.  


Like all the other notes, Jongin carefully placed it into the drawer in his desk, where the very first letter in which Sehun confessed his love also lay; wrinkled, though timeless. He didn’t mind these letters, in fact, he awaited them every evening, hoping that the letter he sent on Saturday might come on faster winds – though it came reliably every Wednesday. Sehun must have known how much they affected him.

He once thought it to be impossible. Now, Sehun’s hands upon his body became his innermost desire. 

There were two more weeks until the winter solstice.


	6. CHAPTER VI: Winter Solstice Pt. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the winter solstice falls upon Hailman, and Jongin knows not of what is plotted behind closed doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO AGAIN. I MISSED YOU!  
Lucky, lucky - I have just finished a ton of chapters and will upload them day by day. Several small chapters will come consecutively.  
I will upload the next chapter tomorrow or the day after, and then I will mass upload them together. I’m so sorry if my writing is clunky, I’m genuinely awful at editing.  
As always,  
Enjoy!

# CHAPTER VI: Winter Solstice Part I

__

_Temptation is a beauty to behold until you arrive at the gates of hell._  
Only then does it become ugly, repulsive, abhorrent.  
Only when faced with damnation do we see the truth.  
We, and only when unblinded by our mortal sorrow, feel the anguish that lies beneath our existence and festers into greedy, envious curds. These hidden veins, pulsing with contempt for which is reflected in ourselves, are only hindered by our God-given humanity.  
The loss of humanity would become the beginning of the end.  
A sacrifice must be made to prevent the eternal burning of all living men.

_~_

Wondrous was the winter freeze of Hailmån. Their weather, so pointedly confused and bipolar, was a marvel to behold by travelers from more temperate climates. The summer was a painful, scorching roast and the winter came to freeze over all as if to overcompensate for its brashness. No less, the castle exterior dripped with enormous icicles alike the size of monoliths and, while the doors were kept tightly shut to fend off the threatening cold, they opened temporarily to welcome all the royals, nobles, and knights that came to show solidarity for Christs’ sacrifice: man’s Salvation.

As arrivals began, all were directed to the marvelous dining hall. It was crafted specifically for the winter solstice, and thusly, only open for the three days with which all nations made Hailmån their home and called each by one name. Not Aetherian, nor Hailmånish, nor Belic – rather, friends in fellowship. The royal dining table that would house all of the arriving queen’s, kings, and princes was one of the items that Hailmån passed humility for. It was a beautiful cherry mahogany, thick and sturdy, and plated on its sides with gold. Small rubies were encrusted into its surface, glinting prettily like the nations famous poppy flowers. Above hung a sophisticated chandelier - imported from far lands over - handcrafted with delicate, rosy glass and fragile crystals that dripped from its flames like the fronds of a weeping willow. The entire room shone like that of the womb, flowing with the blood of Christ; ruddy, dim, close, and solemn. The nobles and knights would be seated throughout at similar round-tables lit by wax candles and seated on fine red velvet cushions atop intricate chairs.

Some might ask why the winter solstice was held in Hailman, the least influential of all three functioning kingdoms. Simply and surely, Hailmån had been proclaimed the land of Adam; namely, the land of Man. In such, the three nations saw it fit to both celebrate and mourn the holy trifecta’s sacrifice in its heart. On the other hand, average peasants spent the three days together, acknowledging their bonds and the peace between them. The royalty spoke to each other about how they may retain fellowship across their lands, and such also included what frustrated them most. This was an homage to Salvation; to show God that they took his gift with utmost seriousness and fought to maintain the balance of good and evil that he granted them with.

Soon enough, crowds filled the dim, spacious room, and to his most startling surprise, the next time Jongin would see Chanyeol was in his very own palace. For someone that once called himself ‘war fodder’, he appeared to be anything but. He wore a magnificently luxurious black leather cape with a cardinal plumage spouting from his shoulders, artisan boots, and his sword was now sheathed in gold with his name printed upon it in native Belic. His hair had grown uncut and long, shaven closely on one side as all southerners did during winter to honor Jesus. Hair, in their culture, was like one’s crown, and to adorn it and make it beautiful was a treasured ideology, so graciously displayed in their braids and hair jewelry – of which all different patterns and metals represented different things. Though, it was shaven in the winter, and then fully cut once the heat of spring came; nearly to the scalp for men, and trimmed for women. Jongin found it handsome, though many found it quite ugly, primal, and zealous.

And, though he showed great restraint in times of temptation, he also found himself drawn to Chanyeol. It were as though they were attached by an invisible rope, and Chanyeol pulled him ever closer without realizing. However, his hopes were quickly dashed by the figure intruding his vision. 

A beautiful Lady with long, braided hair, clung to his arm – she stood tall, stern, and strong; a beautiful, sun-gifted olive glow to her, as expected of a high-class Belic woman. He wondered if she had been a warrior, as well. He wondered if she made him happy.

But, most of all, he was hurt. He had never felt such an emotion before, yet it had struck him so hard that it reverberated through his core with encroaching anxiety. Perhaps, if he were less resilient, he would have felt tears bud at the corner of his eyes and a lump grow in his throat. Even if he did not show it, he was aching from within by a force so powerful that he thought he might not survive it. He recalled the many things Chanyeol had promised him. Something about eternal and persistent love; many other things about how handsome and kind and wholesome he was. How was it possible for the knight to say such things and then grow ignorant of them a mere two seasons later? Did all others love so shallowly? Had he ever really loved him at all? He felt himself sink in his own shoes, as though he could go nowhere but down.

Yet, being the selfless prince that he was, he forced himself to feel glad that the knight had moved on. He could not expect Chanyeol to love him forever, just as the knight could not expect the Prince to return a staggering, impossible flame. Unrequited, obsolete; a crush that must be forgotten. He was enduring dull pain every time he saw Chanyeol and his new crush, as though his heart were being squeezed and drained. Jongin looked down, sullen and sorry in a building crowd of royalty and nobility that were excited to dine and see each other. 

— A still painting among boisterous, happy men. 

It was also on this day that Jongin would meet Prince Sehun again and, hopefully, the Southern Emperor. Yet, each year, the South had failed to attend. Such a disappearance was to be expected from a land that believed that conquest would create peace. It would have been ludicrous, and the lands once attacked by the Belic Empire would surely take offense. However, newfound relations – as unsteady as they may be – were welcomed by Hailmån. For the first time in 50 years, the Emperor of Belmesh (once known as the King of Belmesh when they were but a coexisting kingdom in the distant past) would attend the winter solstice in an attempt to recreate his image. Even in light of optimistic news, most remained skeptical of his motivations. Jongin was no different. Though, he was more hopeful than most, so much so that his naivety might welcome his demise.

After having received bows and exchanging introductions with new and familiar faces, Jongin took his seat. His father was to be the head of the table at the throne-like chair. Yet, he knew the padded cushioning with his name neatly printed on a placement card would remain untouched and empty. With each introduction, he apologized for his fathers absence and received pitiful glances and warmth in return. Such advances consoled him not, however, as they only reminded him of the intensity of the dreadful situation. Though he dared not to admit such bitterness, he was disappointed and upset.

“I am surprised by such a turnout,” The handservant noted, sitting tall in her seat beside the prince. She now proved to be his right-hand woman in the kingdoms time of mourning – all to the resistance of the councilmen, “It is a shame that the king of Aetheria could not attend. Their queen is available however and, arguably, much more agreeable.”

Jongin had no idea that the king would not be in attendance, and was silent in surprise before asking, “More agreeable? How so?”

“This is important knowledge, Prince,” she began, pointing at an empty chair, “He was once good friends with your father. Best friends, if what my mother had once told me is the truth. Your fathers state has been a disastrous blow to the king, whom I believe is too hurt to come visit him at this time. His influence spreads far and wide, but his temperament does not, for he is very sensitive and does not speak much. I am not surprised that he has not arrived. But, you must write him, in my opinion. Do not speak of your father, but show your solidarity. He is a good connection to have. As for his wife, you know her. She is supportive of peace and community.”

Jongin listened intently as the handservant educated him on the affairs of royalty. He was always amazed by her informative talents and was right in calling her his right-hand woman. No council member had the brain and the wisdom to inform him of such important matters with great accuracy. She had seen; therefore, her wisdom grew. To Jongin, that resource was invaluable.

“And, as always, the King of the North will not appear. Thusly, his throne has been delegated to Hailmånish nobles. I am sure everyone is intrigued by the Belic Emperor’s change of h-“

The handservants voice faded away as the big, heavy oak doors swung forward to echo the sounds of marching footsteps trailing behind a tall, looming figure.

The conqueror, the conquistador, the domineering patriarch, the emperor himself: Wu Yi Fan of Belmesh. The dominator of all; loser to none.

He wore the colors of his victorious empire: black, red, and gold. His cape was nothing but the finest of heavy, deep crimson velvets. His boots, to no ones surprise, were virgin leather, and the gold on his tunic was pure. The jewels in his rings? Ripped from fallen warlords. His very own scepter was rumored to be forged from the jewelry of emasculated and defeated Kings, passed down by the Ancient King, his now deceased father. His hair fell wispily and wild just below his shoulders, shaven closely on one side to match all others in his posse. Even his hair was decorated with golden rings woven into lonesome braids. Jewels dripped down his ears like shooting stars, and a golden ring pierced his lip down its plump center, splitting in half perhaps the most symmetrical of faces in the room. His stare was piercing, fiery, powerful… No one could hold his gaze, as though he were challenging a show of bravery. The Belic Emperor exuded confidence, or rather,_ pure wrath_. It sent a shiver up Jongin’s spine, one with which he knew not was of fear or attraction.

Following closely behind him were the sounds of a powerful, booming march. There were 12 knights and one Elder knight whose cape was a vibrant, bloody red; not so heavy as the kings as though it might billow sharply in the wind, flying valiantly in battle. His golden helmet was adorned with cardinal feathers that spouted from the top and lined the vertical center of his cranium. His decorative armor, which shone like polished gems in the flames of the chandelier, only lined his shoulders as a subtle sign of peace. They were not here to harm, merely to ‘be’. He and his troupe carried swords with bejeweled handles, tucked into golden sheaths with a red cloth tied around each to symbolize the blood they had drawn. Black gloves covered calloused, cut, and bruised hands that had seen the throats of many enemies, and each of the knights, of which carried their helmets by their sides, had a single braid in their envied hair that was adorned with several golden rings, each to different numerations. And, of course, beneath so many layers, a single golden arm band around a swelling bicep.

As though it had just clicked, Jongin realized this this must be the King’s personal troupe – the 12 Disciples, and the Elder Knight that called himself the _Blasphemer_. Their presence was overwhelming, and it twisted everyone’s stomach with anxiety and fear, yet the Emperors presence was but one of authority, no matter how fiery. Confidence, sophistication, and leadership wafted off of his step for all to sense, and he made it clear that he was to be respected as much as any other royal at the table. If not, more-so: one step below God himself.

The Emperor stood before the Prince and he stood in return, shaking hands, as was customary for southerners. 

“Welcome to Hailman,” Jongin said with noteworthy respect, “It is my pleasure to finally greet you, Emperor.”

“And it is my pleasure to be here.” 

The Emperor’s voice echoed through the silent hall as everyone watched in anticipation. His voice was softer than expected, but much colder and demanding in return. Jongin smiled, to which his smile was not reciprocated.

“Thusly, would you be free to speak on some affairs?” The Emperor invited, “I have been hard-pressed to find time to reply to your letter.”

“Of course,” Jongin cleared his throat, feeling inadequate in his mighty entrance, gesturing toward a hall leading to the inner-palace, “Shall we walk?”

Yi Fan nodded, holding a hand up to his knights as they attempted to follow him. They scattered, taking seats at tables designated to non-royals and nobles. Jongin was shocked to see that his knights were of such high rank in their Empire, yet he was even more shaken to catch the gaze of the Belic Elder Knight. 

He had what the Hailmånish called a “Crow’s Glare”. Loathsome, spiteful, and riddled with notes of vengeance. Jongin knew not what he had done to offend the sensibilities of the knight, nor what warranted his gaze to follow the prince’s every move, yet he assumed they were exceptionally loyal and protective of the emperor.

Little did he know how lustful for death the Elder Knight was, as he imagined how glorious Jongin’s head would look upon a stake in front of the Emperors palace, right beside his bastard of a father. He reeked of malice and anger; of the iron-laden stench of blood and rotten flesh. 

Yet, Belic lavender subdued the stink that has clung permanently to his skin after so many years of drenching himself in his enemies bowels.

— _Junmyeon, the Blasphemer, Leader of the 12 Disciples._

The handservant eyed him cautiously, careful to take note of suspicious behavior. She knew a lot about the man and his actions. The fact that he dared to show his face triggered an internal alarm. Perhaps the King was inept, perhaps he did not understand that bringing his fiercest warrior to a summit of peace on behalf of Salvation was bounds for declaring war, even if prideful displays of bravado were almost necessary to Belmesh and it’s culture. Despite her generosity, the benefit of the doubt was not appropriate for such a conniving and successful emperor. If the king were here in all his health, he would have turned him away at the door and declared him banished.

She knew that the cunning leader was not so dense.

She also knew that he understood the naivety with which the current prince operated before.

_~_

“You are all but in your 20’s, already a king, and the leader of the world’s greatest, undisputed army. How does one acquire such wisdom?”

“Very close to 30, but I digress. Much of the work that has been had been laid down by my forefathers. I have only built upon the foundation they pioneered for me,” The Emperor began.

The two had been winding through the hallways of the Hailmånish palace, occasionally stopping so that Jongin might explain the purpose or importance of one installment or another. Most bewitching to the Emperor, and anyone else that was given the grace to view it, was the “Epic of Man” that lined the windows; an ancient relic made during Jesus’ time that had been moved into the palace for safekeeping and preservation.

Aside from his curiosity, Jongin found his vocabulary rather peculiar. Despite being so close in proximity, native Hailmånish was more akin to native Aetherian. Emperor Yi Fan’s speech was old-fashioned and guttural, a clash to the modernized and nasal speech he was accustomed to. He would occasionally speak a word that he had never heard in all 18 years of his life, and would stop to try and decipher his messages without forcing upon himself the embarrassment of admitting that he knew not of his language.

“My father has been my beacon for indomitable strength, and I have all of my life to bring his legacy the grandeur that he passed down to me. He has raised me dutifully,” he paused, noting Jongin’s fallen expression, “I am sorry for what illness has stricken your father down. May I ask you, what ailment is haunting him?”

“We are not sure,” Jongin sighed, uncomfortable, one hand subconsciously gripping his shoulder, “It seems to be the trappings of old age.”

“No one is free of death,” the King said, “Though, your father deserves to live long, full days. I had paid a visit with my own pastor during autumn and became a true witness to his condition. Even so, I believe that this is not the end-all-be-all, and am quite optimistic for his future.”

“I appreciate your words and kindness, Emperor.”

Though he spoke so optimistically, the King was anything but. It did not take anything more than a fool to understand the severity of the situation, and Jongin was well aware to the same level. Such formalities became comforts in trying times, and it was only human for the king to be simple and soothing to the young Prince. He, too, was once a young successor, just as Jongin would be. Would it be too much to express his solidarity and provide a hand to pull himself up with?

He knew it, and he knew it well – we often only endured the pain by the anesthesia of temptingly sweet lies. Pain by pain alone would be unbearable and impossible.

“Emperor Yi Fan,” a voice called from down the hall. Feminine and mature - somehow familiar, though entirely unknown to Jongin.

“Yes, servant.”

“The knights have seated themselves and it seems that the royal Aetherians families’ carriage has been spotted in the village. Might you return to the table, or shall I remind you in a few minutes?”

“A reminder will do. I mustn’t be ready for his arrival, only present for what I can be. Are you most prompt with your estimations?”

“I have my pocket watch with me, Emperor.”

“Then let it be 15 or so minutes. No carriage gallops, therefore I don’t believe they will arrive any sooner.”

“Understood, farewell Emperor.”

Yi Fan waved her away – almost impatiently – and she turned with a curtsy, hurrying back the way she came to the noisy room of winter solstice. The Emperor had a loyal and diligent servant, much reminiscent of Jongin’s very own. It were as though they were one entity, entirely dictated by whom they must be rather than who they truly were, though they fought hard to quell their personalities.

Emotion was a tricky subject in Hailmån. All emotions led to anguish and difficulty.  
Sometimes, it felt easier to have never felt at all.

“As I was saying, you very much have grown within so little time. Have you considered an army?”

“No, by all means I have not.”

“And that will be your downfall, young Prince.”

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Prince Jongin’s handservant eyed the Emperor’s handservant from across the table. Her shoulders were sharp, her nose was strong and ridged, and the rest of her face withheld secrets within wrinkles. The handservant had an amazing knack for intuition and, unbeknownst to even her, it was much more attuned and sensitive than most. From it, however, she sensed a garbled anger about the opposing woman. Though, the way that she observed the room was quite unlike the way the Elder Knight made eye contact. The Emperor’s main protector would be suave and sincere to your face, only to pull a ferocious scowl upon your turned back. His handservant, however, appeared rather complacent. She seemed to be the perfect servant; void of feelings or wants or motivations outside of her usage to the Emperor. And yet, as always, the handservant knew much better than to expect that the notorious Wu Yi Fan would employ someone so useless to be his handservant.

In Belmesh, the handservant is referred to as the “Quarter Maid”. A quarter maid holds the same responsibilities as the handservant, though both maintain “hidden” duties, being an informant or a fill-in messenger are commonly known, though the peasants never knew that these servants – of which were of the highest order over other servants within the palace – were intelligent in the ways of politics and scheme. She provides the support necessary to succeed. She is chosen, never born of nepotism, and very, very deserving of her position. So much so that she has no say in whether or not she will be chosen. Upon the discovery of talent, she becomes. Becoming, being, worthy; all words that she will hear endlessly until the day she dies.

This is life. 

Bleak. Bland. Bothersome. 

_Becoming._

The Belic quartermaid met her stare with the sharpness of knives by lidded eyes, down-turned brows, and a wide smirk – perhaps one may take it as an eccentric gesture, but the handservant read the serpentine pride beneath such a face. It was then that she knew that something was awry within their immediate and weary worlds.

That look, so evil and plotting, emanated a vile villainy. It was toxic, noxious, snaking. She oozed a chilling hatred – no, not hatred – an apathy for who did and did not suffer.

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Jongin arrived back at the dining room with Emperor Yi Fan. Their mentions of armies and war quickly evolved into history and philosophy, and it was from then that they had forgotten how they came to meet such topics. The royal family of Aetheria was bound to step through the dining doors any minute now, and it would be unbecoming of Jongin to not greet them and, perhaps, an even bigger disappointment to not let Sehun see him after so long.

So soon, catching everyone off guard, the door opened as though it were wind-guided, very unlike the abrupt and pounding Belic entrance. Brass players made their bellowing arrival, followed by a beautiful symphony of rolling harps and a dramatic drum. 

As the echo settled, a flurry of aquamarine petals spiraled a about the air and scattered, followed by the Queen of Aetheria stepping her way forward on the blue carpet her servant rolled before her. She stepped with poise, one foot before the other, hands clasped gently in front of her, and rows upon rows – what seemed to be infinity as they streamed through the doors - of Aetherian Knights following her lead.

Aetherian knights were a sight to be seen. Their palace knights were more akin to performers than they were to warriors. Surely they did well on the field, but they excelled in what they were called for: to raise grandeur upon the royalty so that they may stand out, be seen, looked up to, and remain rightfully prideful. Their armor was of a polished, heavy silver that occluded most of their faces (for how could any knight outshine the prince or the queen?) And was spiraled with the beautiful swirling patterns adopted from the faraway lands and their immigrants. Followed were the beautiful tribal patterns of the old Aetherian colonies upon their midweight woven capes. 1000 thread count, and no less for the wealthy men (and the sparse few women) that gave Aetheria the image it so craved.

And, with a collective hushed gasp to accompany his stunning entrance, Prince Oh Sehun followed his mothers’ trail, dressed to heaven in a gorgeous aquamarine tunic and turquoise sash that dripped golden embroidery and was tasseled with silver and aquamarine gem stones. His cape, long and heavy for the winter, trailed the ground and then some, sloping over broad shoulder and allowing room for his arms to slip through. Most noticeably, he held his scepter, golden upon the handle and adorned with a zircon that glimmered like clear beaches on a sunny day. His Snow White hair fell dashingly to one side, and while his mothers eyes were tender and unassuming, the stark gray of his irises pulled his pupil out – his stare, though relaxed, did not fail to force respect upon all that were graced by his proximity. He took greatly after his father and had been raised to rule. As the eventual heir to the richest kingdom in his region, he held more power than many individuals in the room combined as a Prince alone, reigning over Jongin himself, and only barely submitting to the Emperor and the Queen. Cocky, perhaps, but that was the seat he was given within the royal hierarchy. Such was fate and inevitability.

“Good Evening, Prince Jongin,” the Queen, greeted, softly stroking Jongin’s forearm as attention shifted away from their entrance, “It is good to see you again, as always.”

“As it is to see you again, Queen. If I have understood correctly, your husband will not be attending?”

“The King is here in spirit, but oh, how worrisome and somber he is about your father. I made the attempt to force him to make an appearance, even if just for an evening, but he is too stuck in mourning to enter your kingdom. My sincerest apologies to you and your father.”

“It is understandable. I would not expect anyone to rush their healing. I am glad that you could make it, however, and it fills me with joy to host the winter solstice this year.”

“You have done a fine job overseeing things. It seems that we were late to arrive, but no matter – shall we begin dinner?”

“That is a fine idea, Queen.”

The Queen grinned coyly, running a hand through Jongin’s hair. He submitted to the touch and nodded, watching to make sure she found her seat promptly. 

The entire event was a massive ordeal. Whilesetting up the palace to welcome so many royal and noble guests was one part of the checklist, decorating the village, guiding prayer, and continuing other daily duties had put a weary kink into Jongin’s back from standing all day and sitting all night to prepare. For his first winter solstice, he did well – he had many a hand that had prepared this year upon year and knew the ins-and-outs of courtesy and gesture. 

However, as he watched the combining of three nations mingle and smile and argue, he did not feel the happiness of summer communion. He could not pin the center of his dissociation, but while summer had been riddled with anxiety and excitement and autumn with uncertainty, winter had become the season of pure, unadulterated disconnectedness. Not quite apathy, not quite sorrow, but nothing at all. 

He saw not of the Aetherian Prince despite scanning the crowd thrice over, and it were as though he had assimilated into the socializing mass like any other man, regardless of his magnificent dress and accessory. The two maintained an unknown sense of each other’s location.

Jongin stood by his father’s center chair, ringing a hand bell to catch everyone’s attention. Some standing, some sitting, but no matter, for their eyes were drawn to the Prince and their lips were sealed to silence. 

“It is my pleasure to welcome you all to the winter solstice. This blessed evening, I hope we all can take part in camaraderie and a shared humanity, in that no issue or battle may bruise our family or friendship. In that same statement, I also hope all of us in this room tonight can vividly discuss our aches and pains, our joys and wonders, and what even may just be on our minds for word. I encourage you to build bonds in place of barriers, even if to think of the people you lead. Most of all, let us rejoice and respect Jesus and his sacrifice for our Salvation, and let us mourn the holy father’s loss. Let dinner commence. Amen.”

A round of applause for a well-remembered and well-spoken speech, and just as quickly there was food being served by the palace servants. The simple foods of the land; seasoned chicken, dried fruits, rice porridge, and herbal tea. There were always a few Aetherian nobles that grimaced indignantly in a pretentious disgust, but the Belic lords and knights filled their faces as though they had been starving for the past week. Easy to please, it seemed, and Jongin was glad. The winter solstice was no time to be fanciful or to impress; the purpose of the event was clear. 

After seeing to it that everyone was served, he took his seat next to his handservant and prayed once again over his own food. He himself had not eaten at all that day and was starved for the best of the matter, though he did not eat well when in thought. His father’s chair was empty, the southern king was absent as always, and the Queen of Aetheria occupied the kings spot. So out of order, so out of place; _imbalanced_. It were as though the year had been cursed, as though the universe had slipped its hold upon the binding that kept it together. As though God had blinked, and everything, though subtle, span the wrong direction.

He looked up from his plate momentarily, locking eyes with the Prince of Aetheria, only to retreat quickly. His cheeks burned and his lips shifted quirkily into a tame and embarrassed grin, his fingers trembling so slightly upon his fork.

“Is there an issue, Prince Jongin?”

“No, handservant.” He whispered politely.

“As you say,” she accepted.

He took another peek up through his eyelashes and caught Sehun again, his stare grew intense and his smirk receded into shadow as he was beckoned by his mother. Jongin could not control the quivering smile that crept slowly upon his face, though he bit his lip to quell the look, he could not control his own face. He was as handsome as the first time they had met – arguably more so, as he had grown into the capable man that would one day sit in his fathers chair. There was mystery shrouded beneath his tall posture and stoic personality; perhaps this was what gave Jongin faith – the hope that, beneath his uncaring façade lay a soft and sensitive love for Jongin, truly beyond the way he looked, where he came from, and how quickly other leaders would kill to have one desperate night with the fair prince.

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The dinner went on as such, with the two stealing mutual looks whenever they could. Jongin had assumed it to be a playful game between two romantics, one shy and one overzealous. Yet, he did not come to realize how long Sehun’s eyes lingered upon him. He did not look away when the eastern Prince did, rather he could not keep his own imagination tamed. Ravenous and sinful thoughts reverberated through his skull about the Prince and all he desired to do to him; how he might crumble the innocent royal beneath his fingertips, only to pull such purity back together with those same hands, and to hold the fluttering mess close to his body and far from his heart. 

Sehun could not explain his specific crush upon the Hailmånish Prince. Not conventionally, at the very least. Within his overwhelming lust for what he ought not have nor deserve lay a complexity in his political life. Being the heir to one of, and arguably the most, powerful and richest thrones in the world designated a massive responsibility to lead and lead well. Sehun, the spoiled only child, would be the only male able to take the throne. If he chose to become a mere secondary to a kingdom like Hailmån, the King and Queen must rush to birth a new heir, lest the throne fall to a noble with different plans and self-interests. It would anger his father greatly, he knew of it. He also knew that Prince Jongin would not, and simply could not, become a secondary to Aetheria. Simply because he was the only heir to the throne of the east, and he could not leave his nation which loved him so dearly, like their own adopted son – for anything’s worth. Loyal he was, so loyal in fact that Sehun knew that leading him astray would be impossible. Thusly, in the heat of his desires, he could submit to him and bring riches to the humble little kingdom. Therein he must consider; how would he break such unbecoming news? He had written to Jongin to not tell anyone before he told for the very reasons that kept him awake at night – how might he sate his unreasonable greed and still please his father and his people? They would look at him as though he were crazy, as though he were selfish, as though he were too naïve to have become king in the first place. He wrung his collar in deep thought, shaking his head as he had accidentally begun to hurt his own ego. There was no Prince more respected and revered than Sehun. He could have whatever – whoever – he wanted. Anytime. Any place. Any reason. He had met many a tempting Aetherian noble and had his own share of scandals. And yet, the glowing bronze Prince with the deep, mahogany eyes and wispy, dark brown hair with a cute button nose and luscious lips did not escape his dreams every night. In fact, his image put the western prince into a fire he could not quell. Let it be the end of him. 

Deep down, Jongin understood that this was not ‘true love’ as he had read in many a story and seen in many a play. He was an object in Sehun’s eyes. A lovely, prized one nonetheless, but merely a plaything for which the western royal could not contain himself. So be it, if it meant prosperity and wealth. There was no one else to choose from, even if they wished to be genuine to Jongin. Those same royals and nobles also wished to have him leave his kingdom behind, which he could not do. There were rich royals on the opposite hemisphere that offered him the world and back just to become their secondary, and he would always faithfully decline. Who would he be if he left Hailmån behind?

“You seem distracted, Sehun,” the Queen whispered, “What troubles you?”

“Nothing of importance.”

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While whispering and gentle conversation took place at the large royal table, the tables with knights and nobles bustled and boomed – more than ever before with the addition of the colorful knights of Belmesh and the increasing amount of bubbly Aetherian Lords and Ladies. Despite the imbalance, Jongin noted, he had never seen a more satisfied crowd on a gloomy winter solstice. He took to the palace halls as everyone else did, greeting new faces and showering them in his knowledge of the palace features. The servants had taped up prohibited areas and Jongin made sure to reinforce them, though he really did not need to. The only areas forbidden for entry were the living quarters and this mothers garden. No one dared enter either.

It was not long, however, until he longed for peace and time alone. He did not do well with crowds nor people for extended periods of time and would often retreat to the quietest corner to be at peace with himself. Though he despised being alone, he was also drained quite easily.

After the handservant has urged him to be social amongst the many powers before him, he had lost the Aetherian prince once again. How could he lose a man so extravagantly dressed, so much so as to stand out garishly amongst the crowd? The Queen and that crown of hair did well to evade his sight, as though she could glide on water and lose anyone. Sehun, Sehun, Sehun. He had been on Jongin’s mind all evening. How he had changed – just a bit taller, a bit wiser, a bit older. Hopelessly, the prince hoped he had changed, though these were lies to the soul. 

Suddenly, as he leaned against the window shelf, thick blankets of snow covering rolling hills and once vibrant gardens, all in a shroud of evening fog, he felt hands clasp onto the thin of his waist, slowly making their way downward. It had startled him, but he did his best to relax into the touch. How else could he greet the Prince? It felt nice to have hands on him, and so he leaned back against a broad chest, expecting to smell his soft scent. Except, it wasn’t soft, it was anything but. It was deep and musky, sharp to the nose in a way that was therein addictive. It smelled so pointedly familiar as to bring a flash to Jongin – a momentous crashing of withheld and imprisoned memories that smelled and tasted of a certain knight of the west.

Of Chanyeol. 

He turned and, to his surprise, he did not meet alabaster skin and sharp gray eyes. Rather, it was Chanyeol himself, too close for comfort, pushing him against the window and peering down at him.

Jongin did not have a word to lend him and his cursory actions. Rather, he found himself breathless, the cold of the frozen-over window pressing into his shoulder blades through the starchy white fabric. He needn’t look up to know that this was Chanyeol. His stark attire, the tallness of his figure, the way his once short and boyish hair now ghosted his shoulder. Just as ragged and just as free. He found himself breathing in and out laboriously, just shy of a silent heave, his eyes widening and widening until they were shocked upon his face. The suspense, those careful hands upon his waist, kept him still for more.

His hands never left his waist, and instead, Chanyeol drew his face closer to Jongin’s. Even the southern knight himself did not understand the full breadth behind his sparse reasoning. He reasoned and reasoned with himself to find that he was reasonless.

“Your heedlessly ignorant bravery borders suicide, southern knight.” 

“So be it.”

Chanyeol took the lost prince’s mouth upon his and pushed his head back into the glass, so softly, however, that it barely made a sound, And even so, the Prince pushed back, feeble hands against strong shoulders that would not budge for the world. As though he assumed ownership over him, he held him tightly in his arms, refusing to let go.

This was new to him. It was a mere hug, but it felt like so much more to Jongin. The tight embrace, both so solid and so warm, was a staple to his being then and there and for what felt like an eternity after. Unmoving, except for the rise and fall of their chests to breathe, and though his skin froze against the glass, his core burned by the suns standards. With his cheek pressed into Chanyeol, and those forgiving arms bound around him like the twining of a book, he lost himself. Melting, going, gone; altering to fit between his nooks and to become him. If becoming one meant becoming happy, then that must be the truth to the present he lived and was never content with.

“A day has not gone by where you have not pressured my dreams with your soft presence.” He murmured desperately, his face intimately close to Jongin’s, “Please tell me you have had a change of heart. I cannot live with myself, knowing that you are not mine.”

“I am engaged, you know,” Jongin pushed the knight back, crossing his arms tightly over his body, “Not that I owe you any glimpse into my personal life. You overstep your boundaries and believe that I will continue to forgive you, Knight. Not only that, but you are in a new relationship. Did you expect for me to not care? Did you think it would not feel unorthodox and rude? To tell me so passionately that you love me, and then to move on the next season? Did you believe it would not hurt? For me to bear witness to… To her?”

It was not entirely true. While Sehun had not done so much as proposed or handed him an engagement ring, Jongin knew that it was an inevitably, and thusly only a matter of time. It were as though he could see into the future.

How sad it was, even though he tried to convince himself that he would love it.

And the hurt on Chanyeol’s face, so deeply buried within his heart, read like jealousy, anger, and sorrow all at once. He looked away, exhaling heavily, but never withdrawing his stance or apologizing for his feelings. How could any man apologize for his humanity? His inane desire to love and be loved by those he admired.

“She means nothing to me,” Chanyeol persuaded passionately, never so honest in his life, “They are forcing me to wed to become an Elder Knight, but there is no one in this world that I want more than you.”

And yet Jongin was still hurt to see Chanyeol suffer. This was not him; the man that was so willing to break his heart and choke his hopes was not who he intended to be, nor who he was from day to day. To lie, to be brash, to hurt the only man to have touched him so sensitively; these were his actions attempting to keep the sullen knight away. To continue to pursue him was to suffer eternally, for Jongin could never give himself to someone of his status, for his wants did not translate to reality. The truth was clear, and it was that their best scenario was an impossibility.

Jongin caressed Chanyeol’s cheek benignly, watching him lean into the touch like an abandoned lamb with no shepherd. His healing energy, so potent and so fresh, may have stung and numbed Chanyeol’s skin, but it did not soften the savage burning in his chest, nor the suffocating paralysis upon his hardening heart.

“With the Prince of Aetheria, foreign knight,” Jongin whispered, shaking his head so gently, his brows upturned in pity and his own sadness, “I cannot tell you once more after tonight. The conceptions in your head of a future between the two of us is not real. It is a lie, a joke, a foolish wish.”

“You are an _awful_ liar to think that I could believe you,” Chanyeol whispered back, shutting his eyes as he placed a hand over Jongins, “…To think that I could believe that such a yielding and patient prince would ever be so brazen.”

“It is necessary.”

“I will only believe you when you have me hanged.”

“I could never.”

“Then I will always believe that you love me, and it is just that you cannot admit it. And as such, I will pursue you until I can no longer make the journey. I will neither love nor marry anyone else.”

“A life of greed and envy will be led through insufferable misery, only for you to spend an eternity in hell,” Jongin murmured, “I am not worth what you imagine me to be.”

“Then kill me before I lay waste to my life.”

Chanyeol slid his thigh between Jongin’s legs, eliciting a surprised gasp. He pinned the hand upon his cheek to the frigid glass behind him and kissed along the veins in his wrist. Even though he shivered to the cold behind them, his blood ran hot and beat against his tongue like a prisoner against cold, unrelenting walls.

Weird, Jongin thought, though intimate. What an odd place to kiss. Perhaps it was a cultural thing, perhaps it was a Chanyeol thing.

Perhaps it didn’t matter at all.

He kissed the softest part of his neck and trailed upward before nipping at the tip of his ear, whispering his unwritten love letters into the sensitive spiral of skin and cartilage. These words, so gently spoken yet so vividly obscene, sent shivers up Jongin’s spine. They were not depraved and emotionless, nor sweet and sanguine – he told him of all the times he saw him in the eyes of a lamb and mourned his absence; of all the times he imagined him lying beside him naked and sleepy and desperate.

Jongin’s warm breath, heavy and labored as the southern knight reached a sneaking hand beneath the waistband of his pants, piqued the skin on Chanyeol’s neck. The Prince, he smelled of poppies and spice. Chanyeol buried his nose in soft, fragrant hair as he aided in Jongin’s climax, feeling him writhe against his own body with each stroke, though his healing touch did nothing on skin hidden by clothing. Chanyeol wished to feel shy and shaky fingers; pulling him closer, scratching him, pulling his hair, drawing blood, it did not matter.

Jongin pushes into Chanyeol’s touch, growing more and more fidgety as he came closer and closer to release. Yet, as though totally brought out of his own trance, he was pushing Chanyeol away again, just as he had two seasons ago, when the weather was fairer and he was a bit younger; a bit more lenient… A little more willing to allow joy into his life without shunning or fearing it.

“I won’t let you toy with my emotions any longer,” Jongin said, voice pleading, eyes needlessly apologetic,, “For every moment that you cling to the idea of me, I am unable to fully let you go. In such a way, we both struggle; _miserable forever and always_.”

The sorry prince looked Chanyeol up and down once over, hands lingering on his chest. The knight attempted to kiss him on the cheek as a means of farewell, for which Jongin only pulled away without so much as a look in his direction; eyes as downcast as his heart was. 

“Have a good evening.”

“I will fight for you,” Chanyeol called as Jongin sped down the hall, “The entire Aetherian army. I will assemble my own troupe and I will challenge God himself. I will undoubtedly _kill for you_. I will not stop until I have sawed all the chains that keep you so adamantly from me. I swear by it, upon God, upon my father, and my father’s father.”

All Jongin could bring himself to do was walk away.

His voice was like fire; uproarious, fearsome, and stopped only by the oxygen he breathed.

For the only thing that would stop him was death itself.

__

~

__

__  


After their intimate fling, the evening began to crumble like crisp foliage on a careless breeze. There was no romantic memory of a “beautiful scandal”, for he was left with a vast emptiness masked only by the numbness to desire that he had trained and honed over many years of disappointment. He still felt semblances of Chanyeol’s body against his, and it bothered him for the rest of the dinner. The husk of his voice vibrating against his ear – _God_, it was too much to handle all at once. He was pulling himself away from everyone, hiding into his thoughts; still _feeling_ what should have faded an hour or two ago. Preoccupied; disconnected.

“Prince Jongin,” Emperor Yi Fan approached, “It has been a fine evening. My men and I will retreat for the night until tomorrow’s festivities.”

“Thank you for making the effort to attend,” Jongin said politely, his gaze only barely centering off to the Emperor’s left, “Have a good evening.”

Yi Fan noticed the detached mood to his manners, but did not make a statement about it. Rather, he shook his hand firmly and nodded with a side-eyed look before stepping away without another word. With a commanding flick of his wrist, his knights followed immediately, the pounding of their heavy boots garnering the attention of every person still left in the thinning crowd. Yi Fan, Jongin noted, had put his point across well. Without a word, they were flooding him from all corners of the room, as though their eyes were always on him. Truly, they were the best of the best.

Inescapable, however, was his personal troupe. They were the very last to leave, followed by their Elder Knight. Each and every one of them gave him a glance, perhaps a very slight and polite bow. Yet, their leader, so stuck in his ways, could not help but walk away in a backwards stride, grinning subtly and excreting a sinister aura that sent chills down Jongin’s spine before turning on a heel, his cape fluttering innocently behind him as though he had never done anything wrong. If he were not a meek prince of the most pacifist nation in the region, he might have stopped the knight and questioned him. Instead, he questioned himself and what he had done to illicit such a reaction. How customary of the prince, to always place blame upon himself.

Passively, he mistook his cold chills for lovesickness, and took his seat at the table, his eyes glossed over in a mental fog thicker than the layer of freeze that encapsulated the castle. And the handservant would not be so effective if she were to not notice his obvious change in disposition. He displayed the symptoms of one who might be coming down with a fever – a bit pale in the face and worried about the eyes, fidgeting and chilled; the tiring upset before the true fever. He picked pointlessly at his lips, staring into space.

“You were gone for quite a while,” the handservant said, following to take a seat beside him.

“Yes, I was, wasn’t I,” he mumbled, quickly adjusting his posture, “The Emperor has just left the castle.”

“Of course, I noticed,” the handservant scooted close, lowering her voice, “What is your opinion of him?”

“He is quite cold, and inexplicably distant. His knights are as well, but perhaps that is too judgmental.”

“Oh no, by no means would it be an understatement. They are visibly wrathful, along with his handservant. But it would be no wonder that they are so awful at public relations, for they haven’t displayed any vague semblance of friendliness in generations. It is like bringing a child to their first social; never so polished as one expects it to be – a little brazen, a little clunky. But it seems that their emperor nails it well, even if the… rest of them do not.”

“_Visibly wrathful_,” Jongin parroted, “A perfect description. The emperor, rather, seems private and reserved; even likeable, I suppose.”

“Do not get ahead of yourself and lay trust in them so naively, Prince.”

“Surely not, but optimism never killed anyone.”

“You would be shocked to hear my many tales of this exact tragedy.”

“And you would be less shocked to hear that I would hope for you to save them for another day,” Jongin smiled teasingly, standing, “I will retire, now. Is there anything else I must know?”

“The queen of Aetheria passed a gift to your messenger. A Belic lord requested to see you, but his name was never left. Ah, and the prince of Aetheria has been searching for you all evening.”

“Of course,” Jongin said, ignoring the rest of her remarks, “Where is he now?”

“Not in the dining room, if I recall correctly,” she looked about, “He moves on quiet feet. He came to me personally to deliver you this message, but he seems to have disappeared into thin air.”

“No matter.” Jongin yawned, “I do not have the energy to greet him, regardless.”

“If I may ask, what is the interest that the prince has taken upon you?”

“He is a great friend of mine,” Jongin lied, “We has planned to meet tonight, but I suppose it must be postponed.”

“Accordingly, you send each other a lot of written correspondence.”

“And how would you know?”

“I am your handservant,” she scowled maturely, standing into a bow, “I may not know all, but I see most. Keen eyes and ears are what landed me here, you know. The wisdom came after a few years.”

She made her way toward the exit after generating her generic evening farewell and left Jongin in a shock upon another shock, rendered so useless as to stand motionless as the room emptied.

What did she know? What did she not know? What had she seen that he hoped she would never see? 

He exhaled and hurried to his quarters, entertaining each greeting with painfully forced chatter and scripted niceties.

__

~

__

__  


As he turned the corner, he spotted a flash of blue robes and silvery hair, upon which he found himself retreating. That was, irrefutably, Prince Sehun, walking the halls in the same direction so as to face away. 

Oh how he _dreaded_ seeing him now. He knew the Prince expected so much, and he could not be what he had dreamed of now. Chanyeol, so selfish and persistent, had succeeded in pulling him apart for the day. He had no energy left to entertain the western prince. Within these same thoughts he worried that, if he could not fit his desires and fantasies, he would be cast aside, and the search for a new secondary would begin again; only this time, it would be fruitless and hopeless.

“Good evening, Prince Sehun,” Jongin hushed, holding his hands together behind him, “How are you faring upon this gentle evening?”

“So much better now that I have finally found you,” Sehun turned, so suavely unsurprised.

Up close, he was much handsomer than Jongin remembered, though the moonlight did him more justice than the sun did. Jongin’s shoulders curled inward and his heel dug into the floor beneath them as he coyly gazed up at the king-to-be. He saw through his lascivious desire one moment, and now he was the object of his sweetest dreams. Like a honey bee to a parasitic blossom, he knew not where he was being led; only that it attracted him greatly, so much so that it’s source no longer mattered. In an instant, he became a quivering, moonstruck mess. It was amazing what could be forgotten when irrational infatuation took its stake and ran with it.

“I have missed you, in turn,” Jongin giggled softly, edging toward his bedroom door, “But, I am quite tired, Prince.”

“And so you will retire without me?”

“Would you like to join me for a moment?,” he hinted, smiling breathlessly as though he could already feel hands pulling his thighs open and swelling in his belly, “You will be in Hailmån for the next two nights, no?”

“Surely I will,” the older prince nodded, adjusting his cape and following the younger inside.

He was a bit surprised by the interior. He had studied the ways of Hailmån and understood their deep roots in humility and generosity. Yet, he did not expect the prince’s room to be so plain. Sehun’s own abode was heavily decorated with only the finest of furniture. The room he stepped into now was not much larger than his lounge; the bed frame was quite intricate, but the sheets were of a plain white cotton. His desk was of a beautiful cedar wood, but it was not carved or particularly ornate. One ceiling-height window gave way to the outside world blocked by a deep green curtain, and the room was lit with a few wax candles. It was shocking to Sehun, almost irredeemably so. He was used to luxury and he took full advantage of it. The prince figured he may not be able to live without it if he were not promised Jongin.

Further still, as though none of it mattered, Sehun snaked an arm around Jongin’s thin waist and nestled his opposite hand into deep brown locks before stealing a torturously overdue kiss, taking care to remember the way his supple lips conformed to his own, slick and velvety as though they had never seen another persons skin. Holding himself back, he slid his kiss to his jaw, breathing in deeply. This was the prince’s aroma, so caught off guard and casual.

Jongin could only stare into the space behind him, shocked to feel himself in strong arms beneath such a romantic kiss – and all so suddenly. So lost in thought as to not reciprocate, but certainly to feel everything tenfold.

Sehun guided him to the bed and pushed him down, the sheets curling about his frame and making him the center of attention. The younger prince is not sure as to how he feels. With the dominant presence above him, the lights so dim, the air so warm and murky despite the last few nights having been cold and lonely... He reaches out to Sehun and holds his face between two warming hands, smiling coyly. He was not sure as to what the sopping, twisting feeling deep within him was, but it was so _unbearably_ warm. His hips burned frantically and his abdomen erupted in flames, all the while he blushed adorably beneath Sehun, who wanted nothing more than to rip his garments off piece-by-piece and to ravage him thoroughly. For, truly, he was stricken. Not in the way with which his mother loved his father, but in the way that a collector loved his captives. The man beneath him was unlike any other that he had ever been graced to see. The whole world gossiped about his handsomeness, they raced each other into his arms, and here he had him all to himself. That alone sent dark bolts over and through his ego – one of the only things that brought him pleasure.

Sehun stripped him, layer by layer, until he was lying naked against his bed sheets. So demure; so cute as he brought an arm over his chest and awkwardly gripped his shoulder, squirming as one leg hiked up to cover his shame. He avoided Sehun’s gaze as he undressed, and it was then that Sehun realized how beautiful he looked when his body was flushed all over.

He pulled Jongin’s thighs apart, staring hungrily at his entrance, aching to be inside of him – to know what it was like to _own_ him. But, like many things in life, he had always been disciplined. Instead, he brought his lips down to the curve of his thigh, indulging in how they gave beneath his fingertips like plush velvet. Even more so, how the boy beneath him shivered and reeled at such a small gesture.

Sehun pressed his lips against Jongin’s inviting warmth, savoring his time nestled right in between his legs, thighs draped unceremoniously over his shoulders. With each kiss, he could feel the younger prince’s entire body tremble around him, like the deep vibrations of an earthquake; he was rattled to his core. The younger prince sealed his lips together and felt the blood rush to his cheeks and the goose flesh raise along his spine and chest. Then, as though by the waves of Sehun’s soothingly monotone voice whispering praise upon praise into him, tears began to bead at the corners of his eyes; heavy and pleading to spill over their seams.

“Look at me.”

His voice was not quite cold, but certainly demanding and fitting of a prince with so much power. Jongin propped himself upon his elbows and peered down to meet his gaze as the elder glanced upward, past the outline of his abdominals and the soft slope of his chest. Sehun liked this – liked the way that Jongin was so close to the brink of tears. All because of him. He did this to him. He was in control.

They maintained eye contact as he pressed his warm tongue over his fluttering entrance, pulling an erotic gasp from Jongin’s core – a sound he did not know he could make paired with a feeling that did not seem real. His hips twitched and subconsciously pushed into Sehun’s face as he tasted him upon his lips and ate him out, becoming more and more passionate and frenzied with his tongue as the moans of the man beneath him became louder and more desperate. Jongin’s head fell backward, his legs wrapped around Sehun’s back, his fists were bunched into the bed sheets, and he was _leaking_. Oh, how delectably wet he was, sopping and filthy and such a soothing sight to see.

“Oh _God_,” Jongin moaned, having broken eye contact long ago, “There, _there_.”

Sehun circles his tongue around Jongin’s rim, able to tell just how much he loves the sensation by the way he pushes himself back onto his face. He licks up and down the soft skin of his inner thighs before Jongin can reach his climax, noting how he slumps down onto his back, pink-faced and delirious from the stimulation (or, perhaps, the lack thereof).

The elder prince is beyond thrilled and breathing heavily, despite the fact that they have only just begun. No other man that he has shared a bed with has ever blessed him such a reaction. It reminded him of a time long ago when he was a boy and he had just discovered that he was deathly allergic to rose hip. He was rushed to the infirmary and began to fade out from the present… Anaphylaxis, they called it. There is a fire deep within him that is burning him alive. He can barely breath, he can barely think, and it is as though he has lost all sense of himself as lightheadedness consumes him. It is as though he is ceasing to exist, and instead, has given rise to a new plane of existence.

After generous lubrication, he is two fingers within him. Slowly, but surely, because even the best of preparations will not keep him free of injury. He had fingered him shallowly and in silence, purposefully avoiding his prostate and watching him grow harder and harder with each pull. What a _beautiful_ pussy he had; so soft, warm, and innocent.

All the while, Jongin is a nervous, trembling, and aroused wreck. He wonders if he can actually take someone inside him. He had dreamt of it and imagined it, but now was the moment with which he would lose his treasured virginity. There was nearly a twinge of fear; a natural response to the safekeeping of his most sacred and humbling possession.

And, just as his eyes flutter shut, he feels something hot, wet, and warm slap against his innermost privacy – and he looks down, and he is _intoxicated_. Sehun is girthy and large, and the very idea of harboring his hard, glistening cock within him has sent his mind reeling back into another galaxy. Though, as his chest heaves and he stares down at the tip teasing his entrance, excited over something that has not even come yet, he pulls his legs shut and shifts uncomfortably, catching Sehun by surprise.

“What is the matter, my prince?” He asked, hiding his irritation with generated kindness. It all came across as flat, to Jongin.

“Will you really take my virginity like this?” Jongin asks, casting his glance to the side.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Sex before marriage is a sin, is it not? How could royalty engage in such behavior?”

Sehun was one to be blunt, honest, and even a bit uncaring, and the discipline he made use of to prevent himself from saying that he had engaged in pre-marital sex more times than he could count on both hands was unprecedented. The title of “royalty” meant nothing more than what it read on paper. He did not follow their stringent rules as closely as the next prince in lands over did. And yet, here was Jongin, a hand between his legs to cover himself and tears forming in his eyes once again, so that they glistened stunningly in the candlelight.

Yet, he was in no place to bargain. There were many things that the prince could not be swayed upon. He would have his virginity soon enough, if not tonight.

Therefore, Jongin took him in his mouth instead, swirling his tongue about his tip and pushing as much of the length into his mouth as he could, his lips pouting cutely around his cock with the technique of a charming amateur. The elder takes no delay in shoving himself deep within the innocent prince’s mouth, watching him choke and tear up as his nose runs and he gags. Every once in a while, he will let him pull away to breath, ragged and itchy, saliva running down his chin in droves and pooling around his chest to drip onto pristine sheets. In an unintentionally sadistic way, watching him cry gets him off.

With one last deep thrust that hits glides into Jongin’s cheek, Sehun is cumming into Jongin’s mouth, catching him entirely by surprise. Upon instinct, he gags at the taste of bitter and it slides out of his mouth, coating his lips and dripping onto Sehun’s groin. Afterward, Sehun lazily jerks him off until cum splatters onto his chest, and he finally allows himself to lie down and doze off.

Though, it was not until Jongin was entirely sure that the rich prince had fallen asleep before he stood to clean himself. He felt dirtied and sullen as he fell into his desk chair, all the light airiness of their first kiss drowned and suffocated by the deflowering of his lips and the lingering smell of Chanyeol on his skin… All over, as though he had become part of him; _like he had taken a piece that he could not return_. Jongin ran gentle fingers up his neck, remembering Chanyeol’s very own drifting over his skin, his lips speaking into the flesh. He stared listlessly into space, face messy and hair astray, recalling the very memory that set him ablaze and into a frigid chill simultaneously.

Though, coming of age so gracefully did not mean that he was void of all desire. Passion, though he quelled it well, raged rampantly in his core. Every time the prince passed his vision he felt an urge overtake him that either reduced him to calamity, arousal, a giggling coyness, or all three at once. The cacophony of hormones, so catastrophic in their concoction, would not leave him be. Being so new to ideas of such a sinful nature, he contrastingly found himself drawn to them. He knew not as to why, but he wished to touch and be touched; to hold and be held. He was achingly sensitive and oh-so-blind to what pleasures might await him. And, of course, he felt domesticity burn pleasantly in his chest. To be wed, to live together, to have children; they attracted him and made him swoon hopelessly. He found himself unable to admit to it, but it was true, nonetheless.

And so, he bathed and collapsed into bed, exhausted and mentally shattered, if not physically. There were many things to do in the morning, many people to meet and please. And of course, he must follow his promises to Sehun. Meanwhile, it all offered a distraction to the greater issues in his kingdom. The outskirts, the Emperor and his knights, his father who had become all but a shadowy remnant, to be reminded of him only every once in a while on a still moment. Despite his apprehensions, he slipped back into his bed and fell into the most sobering of sleeps beneath the older prince’s embrace. The first in a while. He dozed off with the tiniest of grins upon his face, successfully manipulated by the master of hearts, himself.

Though, that night, as Chanyeol made his trek to his holiday housing, no longer fuming, but stewing in a potion of fractal dreams and kaleidoscope sadness, he would return to someone in his bed, and hope that she were not there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with me! Let’s see... I really want to give you guys the pictures that I draw inspiration from for each member. I’m a huge hoe for post-exo kris.  
Also, come be my mutual on twitter 🥺 I finally got the hang of it (I think), so it’s not a barren wasteland, anymore.  
~SunnyJune


	7. CHAPTER VII: Winter Solstice Pt. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chanyeol.  
alved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to keep ‘em short 😴

# CHAPTER VII: Winter Solstice Part II

_My heart yearns for what I cannot reach_  
I cannot even rush to battle without his image on my mind  
Chastising me, going on about Heaven and Hell and what-have-you  
Something about innocence and justice  
Something else about murder and my 7 scars 

_And it was on a fateful day that I met him again_  
Who would have thought that I would make it to the winter solstice in the emperors party  
I have not slaved or slain for weeks, now  
I do not feel the same  
But, I do miss it 

_Yet I saw him again, and he has not changed one bit_  
So gentle and soft and so unlike anyone I have ever met  
I feel shallow, though I know my true intentions, and that is all that matters 

_He is unable to say yes_  
Though, I know he wishes to with all he can be  
And thereby, I have sworn to pry this ‘yes’  
This stubborn ‘yes’ –  
From God’s very own hands 

_And when I have it, I will laugh_  
And parade it  
And then he will be mine 

_Blood shed_  
Lives lost  
Lands laid to waste 

_By whatever means  
They are only means to an end._

__

~

__

__  


“Will you not sleep soon?”

“Of course, of course.”

Chanyeol stretched his arms and shoulders, peeling away from the desk. He could not tear himself away from the stars and the way they twinkled, and how they reminded him of the sparkle in Jongin’s luminous eyes. He seemed to be the most beautiful when he smiled, followed closely by being speechless.

His partner, known strictly by her non-Belic warrior name ‘Alved’, sat in bed reading. He knew her well enough to know that she did not read the Bible before bed, rather, she favored old historical texts about war and peace. Ironically, he knew nought of her Belic name, nor her heritage or her family before him. She would be more aptly named his fiancée, yet he had denounced all love in favor of the Prince. Instead, he named her as she was. Alved, and only Alved.

“What village were you from, lady?” Chanyeol asked as he buttoned his shirt.

“The mighty fallen village of Gilmesh, no less,” she replied, lost in her book, “I was the chiefs daughter.”

“Interesting… I must wonder how you became a Lady.”

“My father killed the Ancient King.” She shrugged, pausing as though what she said held no weight whatsoever, “Well, when you had a king and not an emperor.”

“…Ah. I see. So you must have had an army, then?”

“The most grandiose display of hellion ever seen outside of Old Belmesh. But, they ripped that from my father’s hands, along with his scalp, and now,” she cringed, “They call me Lady and give me riches and nice things to oversee Belmesh as it is today. It is an awful repayment. I would have rather died.”

“…And you didn’t because…”

“My mother passed it down to me and made me promise to ‘behave myself’’, as though Belmesh were any better than Gilmesh.” She sighed, “You kill their king and they nearly kill your entire tribe. Afterward, they reward you for your ‘feat’, so they - _you_ \- must have us beat in barbarism. Why do you ask?”

Chanyeol ignored the fact that she spoke down on his culture, “Ought we not begin to know each other?”

“I suppose,” she shrugged, “But, do you really see a purpose in it?”

Chanyeol shrugged with her and fell into his side of the bed, peering up at the ceiling with his hands clasped behind his head.

“A chiefs daughter from the days of the Ancient King, all the way from Gilmesh, the only worthy rival to Belmesh in its olden days, and yet you have found your way to me. Why is that so?”

“Because I would like to enter the palace,” she replied nonchalantly, “And you must wed soon. Neither of us truly have any interest in wedding, so perhaps it works.”

She was ridiculously blunt, Chanyeol thought, and not once did she lift her gaze from her book. “_The Gruesome Terrors of Gilmesh_”. Such a book before a nights rest? Chanyeol knew many a crazed man born from the spoils of battle, but never one that was so calm about her triumphs and traumas and all the gross details in between. Not that it was unappealing, only jarring. He could expect no less from someone with her repertoire. Chanyeol, himself, was not rounded and meek, and could never see himself loving someone that was all frills and no fight.

“Then, Lady, do you ever wish to rebel?”

“What Lord or Lady from one of the Ancient Villages does not? They rule land that was once theirs, but will never truly be theirs again, only after its people and culture were razed to the ground to make room for Belmesh to grow. I despise your nation, just like any remaining members of the tribe of Gilmesh would. Yet, my family made their promise, and I inherited that promise. Thereby the last remnants of my people can live on within the south, lest they compromise restricted freedom for extermination and extinction.”

“Then, why not build an army? Why not revive the movement of Gilmesh and take it for yourself, Lady? You hate us so much, one cannot speak foully and then relinquish action.” Chanyeol humored, though partly serious.

“_Because_ I made an unbreakable promise to my mother. For someone with such big ears, you are a fool to never listen,” She turned the page, exasperated, “And do not call me lady.”

“Then what shall I call you, oh mighty one?”

“Alved is fine.”

“Then Alved it will be.”

Chanyeol ran a hand through her coarse, dark hair before extinguishing the lamp at the bedside. Before he turned, he caught a glimpse of disgust, and it made him laugh – though he hid it for her ego’s sake. She had a strong face - iconic of Belic aborigines - beautiful skin, and strikingly cattish eyes. She was uniquely gorgeous; strong femininity with a dash of masculinity. If he were not so blinded by the Prince, he would have married her without question. The wonder comes when he must ask if she would have ever loved him back.

There is no room to feel passionately when your mind is swimming in vendetta.

Each palace knight in Belmesh must wed ceremonially. It is not only a tradition, but a mandatory one – who you marry does not matter unless you wish to become an Elder Knight, in which you must wed a suitable Lady or higher, and no lower. The only exception ever being the Emperor’s personal Elder Knight, whom of which earned his accolades via skill alone.

He did not wish to be set up. Yet, as a 29 year old approaching 30 with the speed of river rapids, it was inevitable that someone would be forced upon him. 

Though foolish and stupid, Chanyeol has already begun his plan. Though it would start as a small seed within his mind, he wished to grow it into more. To become an Elder Knight, to build a troupe and then grow an army – perhaps with the aid of his ‘partner’ he could become more. 

Could he consider it a true wedding if neither of them truly wished to be together?

He found her snarkiness quirky and lovable, and was certainly smitten by her face. Yet, she was not Jongin. And quite frankly, he was not her type in any sense of the word. Alved could never see herself loving anyone, much less Chanyeol. If she ever were to, a Gilic warrior would be her only choice. A man who wore the furs of animals he slaughtered and who staked the heads of his enemies before his tribal doors. Someone to speak Gilic with and make merry… Someone ruthless and unforgiving. Though Chanyeol could be all of those things, he found that he had a tendency to grow so gently fond of the one he loved, even if he damned all else to Hell with a blade that swung mercilessly.

“You know, you are not awfully boring, nor weak or cowardly,” She said from the opposite side of the bed, “Yet, I crave what you cannot give me; what neither a wedding nor a husband nor children can give me.”

“Revenge?”

“Cold-blooded, cruel, and unforgiving revenge.”

“What a traitor you have become.”

“No less than you, Knight.”

“You can call me Chanyeol.”

“Is that your warrior name?”

“That is my real name, actually.”

“And so what is your warrior name?”

“I haven’t got one. That is purely a Gilic custom that, quite frankly, I don’t think developed anywhere else.”

“Then I shall swear you an honorary one.”


	8. CHAPTER VIII: Winter Solstice Pt. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sehun is a liar, as are you.

# CHAPTER VIII: Winter Solstice Part III

_He had fallen into a love so deep that he no longer saw his own reflection in the mirror. He saw Jongin, he breathed his name, he felt his presence even though they were separated by a treacherously boundless sea._

_His ego – it grew, and grew, and grew…_

_He is walking hubris. He basked in their envy. He loved to be worshipped. He would forsake everything he was._

_He thought the useless pain was merely an inevitable facet of love. And he, so unmoving and indifferent, would have no less than Jongin in his entirety; a claim to ownership, the breach of purpose._

_Selfishness is the bane of all he wishes for._

_Pride will be his doom. _

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~

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That evening, as Sehun peeled away from his lovely item and lingered upon his sleeping face, he could not help but to allow his hands to wander. He fingered at the prince’s supple lips, groping his tongue, and passing over lithe hips before closing the door soundlessly with a soft click from his lock. He slumped against the wall next to him, leaning his forehead against the cold marble, his hand tightening into a frustrated fist before he straightened up again. There was a certain discipline that one would be naturally inclined to and, Sehun, having been a prodigy since birth, was possessive of many virtuous qualities. The ability to delay instant gratification was not one. It would be his end if he could never learn the caveats of restraint. Though, he did well – or so he thought.

Obsession had overtaken him in ugly and poetic ways, so to say that he restrained himself was only relevant to reality. His daydreams spilled over with vivid images, memories of Jongin’s voice and the way his hair moved about his face when it was shorter. He had remembered how coddled and soft he seemed, and when they first met, it reeked of awkwardness; though it was worth it to see the younger prince stammer and shuffle. 

They had met during a private royal social, deemed a ‘social’ because the Aetherians refused to consider the lame Hailmånish activities worthy of the title ‘party’. It was right before Jongin’s 18th birthday, therefore everyone came to see the boy off once before adulthood. He was christened by a pastor and everyone made their congratulations by way of kind word and gifts. Oh, how they loved the sweet boy, showering him with piles upon piles of expensive presents.

Sehun was the only one to have not brought him a gift. Rather, he sat with his handservant and his father and remained silent for most of the afternoon. Despite the beautiful weather, the comfortable seating, and the joyous occasion, it would be a stretch to suggest he was upset, for he was, rather, bored beyond heaven itself. 

It was only when the handsome prince came to greet him (forced by his handservant, of course) when he was struck by Cupid’s bow.

The sun hit him through stained glass like a beam of heaven’s light and pulled the deep brown’s in his eyes out into glowing amber. He stood before him, not uttering much other than a polite ‘hello’ and a generous bow. Sehun was used to such treatment – who did not want the favor of the next in line to the most influential kingdom? And yet, Sehun – for once – had nothing to say at all. 

He was no inept idiot, either. He knew that the prince drew all social and political relevance from his otherworldly looks and the holy promises of his family, meanwhile, his kingdom had been united since its first instatement so many generations ago. He had overheard many nobles and royalty speak of the prince like a diamond in the rough. His kingdom was full of people that looked like him and bared the same features, and yet, he emitted an aura that, once perceived personally, felt like vibrations to the soul. When the sun hit him, he radiated outward from within, like his eyes were made of glass and his skin were translucent. His hair flowed like water, and his step bounded softly as though he had never touched the ground.

More often than not, he was spoken about with praise. Other times, by the most powerful of nobles who led entire lands, and royals who held more riches than to know what to do with, he was spoken of like a trophy. Not so much of a stunning obelisk than a delicate chalice, and people often conjured ways in which they might force him to fall in love with them. Even his own two sisters, soon wishing to wed, made plans to meet the prince over dinner, and he listened slyly, wondering how shattered their hearts would be when they found out the truth.

Sehun certainly found it humorous, for the young Prince had never quite been his type. He had always fancied the richest lords of Aetheria, and he most certainly had a trend; men and women with crystal blue eyes, dirty blonde hair, about his own height, about a decade older, a prominent nose, and a foully ostentatious way of dress.

Jongin was different. It were as though he had crumbled the world as he knew it beneath his fingertips only to allow him to see some odd truth; a supernova before him to his realization that his ‘type’ was Jongin. He would no longer look at the people he once crushed upon with the same regard, for deep brown eyes and mahogany hair had enslaved him; his memories, his future, his truths, and all that he would ever be. He often asked himself why, and was never fruitful in finding an answer.

Most shockingly was the sensual, teasing allure that he had now adopted and made his own. The last time he had met Jongin, he peered up at him with uncertainty and acted as though he could barely speak. Now, he moved with the breeze and parted the air when it was still, light on his feet as though he were dancing, and so beautifully, impossibly mystical. As though, by some grace of god, turning 18 meant turning the world on its axis and kissing the past goodbye. He held the world in tender hands, caressing it into a rapturous sleep. He wondered if he knew that he had the world wrapped around his finger.

There had come a point where his obsessions led him to disgust. Disgust for the markers of where he came from; of blue eyes and blonde hair and porcelain skin. He saw nothing but shallow ends within them, but fell endlessly into an infinity presented only by Jongin. A new kind of afterlife; the Void. He could be his new religion.

_~_

“Finally retiring, I see,” his mother remarked, setting a candle on the coffee table as Sehun entered the small luxury cottage.

“Yes, my apologies for being late, mother. I had looked for the Prince.”

“That sweet Hailmånish Prince is a treasure,” she smiled, “And a good friend, I’m sure of it. Did you find him?”

“I did, but the moment was brief as he had grown weary.”

“Understandable,” she nodded, taking a seat in a velveteen reclining chair, “It has been a long day.”

“Much too long, I can only-“

“After all, I would not expect for anyone to be so immediately ready to greet their long-time love, right?”

Sehun halted in his tracks, assessing what had just happened. His mother did not seem angry, nor necessarily pleased. It was not about her reaction, it was about his. The truth being, he was at a complete loss for words. There was nothing he could say to make it better.

“How did you-“ 

“The constant letters to Hailmån issued for him were one clue,” she relaxed into the recliner, sighing, “but everything else, the restlessness, listlessness, distraction, it was all too ill-timed to be deemed convenient.”

“Mother, I-“

“You at a loss for what to say, I am sure – for how could I know? Mother’s learn how to intuit here and there. The reason why I bring this up to you now, however, is because I must ask. Your father and I have always believed that arranged marriage, once a custom, was restricting and inhuman. Thusly, we wished for you to be able to pick who you would like to marry. Whom you pick does not matter to us, and with my knowledge of the Hailmånish Prince, I have to wonder why you would keep it a secret.”

“It felt necessary at the time, mother.”

“Secrets are for children, Sehun,” though she seemed to scold him, her voice held no trace of acid as she sighed, “I would like for you to introduce him to me properly. In fact, perhaps not now as the occasion would be spoiled. Bring him to the palace and we will meet him formally. Allow him to stay on grounds and become comfortable with the palace and Aetherian life. Such is only fitting, correct?”

“Surely, mother.”

Sehun, not one to ever cry, felt his eyes sting like salt rubbed into fresh scrapes, like lemon juice into a raw wound. In that moment he was the sea; tumultuous and stormy behind eyes like rough waters in a hurricane. It had wound him tightly and unwound him again to admit to his mother – and especially his proud father – that he would forsake his kingdom for an impoverished prince. He imagined her frustration, his fury, their intertwining disappointment.

Suddenly, though it had built up for so long, he heaved and doubled over, finding a comfortable place at his mothers feet with his head rested on her thigh as he cried. Instinctively, she ran her fingers through his hair and her voice fell to a hush.

“Why do you weep, Sehun?”

“I am just glad to have finally told you,” he sobbed solemnly, “I believed that you would not approve, mother.”

“I will approve of whatever brings you joy.”

He sobbed harder, digging his fists into her frilly night gown, leaving a sopping mark where he shed tears. 

At some point, the candle had extinguished and his crying had all but stopped, a dull mothers’ hymn reverberating across artistically etched walls and high ceilings.

He stared into the darkness, his mothers warmth against his cheek, and he held his lie close to his heart as though the truth were threatening to stab and end him. She smiled, believing that her son was relieved and hopeful while he actually baked in the heat of his hopelessness.

He knew she would not approve when she found out the truth. She, though unconditionally loving and understanding of her beloved son, would not forsake her kingdom for anything.

_‘I am fraudulent and false,’ he thought, ‘but he is so very worth my collusion.’_

And thusly, Jongin became his God upon the clouds; his challenge to reach. Through his lovesick anxieties, he still understood that he could push and push, and Jongin would fall into his arms, anyway.

Watching Sehun allow himself to fade from his eternally perfect composure was like watching the sun set on a dying world. Never one for rage, nor sorrow, nor outward joy, to see his fall was unknown.


	9. CHAPTER IX: Winter Solstice Pt. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __   

> 
> __
> 
> And about the ninth hour Jesus called with a loud voice, “My God, My God, why have You forsaken me?”
> 
> __  

> 
> __  
Matthew 27:46 

# 

Chapter IX: Winter Solstice Part V

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ezekiel 16:19

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_~_

Jongin cleared his throat, “Good Evening, Knight.”

Kyungsoo de-boarded his horse, bowing before the prince while pulling ashamed fists beneath fur-lined gloves. The snow seemed to fall in clumps rather than a flurry as it cascaded down by droves from the forest canopy. Their feet sank past the ankles in a soft blanket covering of it and their steeds shifted restlessly to return to the shoveled warmth of their stables. All was quiet, minus the echo of cracking ice or a distant avalanche. Seemingly, time stood still around the prince. Nature quieted down in the prince’s presence. Not in respect or fear per se, but in a lovestruck awe for all that was gentle and kind and beautiful.

“Why are you still holding your bow?” Jongin asked, “Do raise yourself, knight.”

“I still have not properly apologized for my misconduct, nor have I paid the price.” He said honestly, holding his bow as an ache formed in his lower back, “Repentance is important to me. My respect to you is all I have to offer.”

“This must be why I have not seen you lately. Rounds in the forest never used to suit you very well. But, so be it – I accepted your apology long ago, and yet, I was neither upset or particularly bothered, anyway. Rather than prince to knight, and as a friend toward another friend, you needn’t treat yourself so harshly.”

“My place as a knight, however, is the reality. I have overstepped, I have led myself too close. I am deserving of the correct punishment and I will not forgive myself otherwise.”

Kyungsoo had long since recovered from his withdrawals and come back to his senses. Since then, he had spent many knights questioning his celibacy, his identity, everything – many nights, he fantasized of him and led himself to release with sinful thoughts of the prince. He had forced himself away from the pleasant touch after he had promised to avoid the prince, which could be comprised as some parts shame and most parts fear. Kyungsoo had always noticed their distance and, as an Elder Knight, had grown comfortable and accustomed to the rules.

Though Jongin saw friendship, Kyungsoo could not say that he saw the same. Nor that it was appropriate or comfortable in the least when the future king made him close, or when he were able to touch him without so much as a scolding.

“You cannot even look your prince in the eyes with sincerity?”

Kyungsoo looked up and quickly looked away, hurriedly taking one knee and holding his clasped hands upward,

“Please provide me with something to atone for my sins,” Kyungsoo pleaded, “Anything will do, so that I may relieve myself of my shame and move forward.”

“If it will remove this stress, I can only do my best, right? I suppose I will have you… Kneel in the snow for 20 minutes, much like young knights do when they’ve been too rowdy. You have a pocket watch, don’t you, Knight?”

“Of course,” he replied, pulling one from his supply belt.

He had already begun the timer before the prince had asked and, though it felt wrong to punish a friend, Jongin complied for the sake of the Elder Knight’s sanity. He did not grasp the fact that, no matter how hard either of them tried, they could never truly be friends.

“Anyway, I came to ask you about – about my father,” Jongin stammered, clearing his throat and wringing gloved hands, “About his abilities.”

“Perhaps you mean the healing,” Kyungsoo shivered, though he knew not if it were a cringe to their past or the dominating cold, “And if so, I have much to say on the topic.”

“Precisely.”

“Well, your father is of the direct lineage of Hailmån, meaning, from the holiest of times, born from the bloodline of the first king and Queen. Thusly, it was no surprise to anyone that he could heal. In fact, he was quite generous and joyful prior to… the death -er – passing of your mother. I witnessed his works first hand. It seemed, however, that the act of healing was quite draining, though he did a spectacular job of hiding this from the villagers. A good nights rest and a hearty meal always did the trick, however. It was similar to your abilities, only you heal instantly. He was not able to achieve this. I suppose… that is partly why I was so surprised.”

“And what of the ones before him?”

“Well, the twice-late Queen, your father’s mother, is also within the direct lineage and was not able to heal. She could, however, listen to the Murmur of the Heavens and translate it to Hailmånish. People were able to avoid the plots of Satan and other various pitfalls in life.”

“And before her?”

“Another Queen. She could neither heal nor hear, but she possessed the strongest prayers in all of Hailmån’s royal history. This extended beyond good deeds and small pleasantries. She saved her future generations from the south.”

“How so?”

“She prayed over her daughters son before she passed. As you know, your father’s mother had divine hearing and overheard of a savage attack from the south. This, as you can guess, became the ‘Last War” many yeas after both of the queen’s deaths. I’m sure you know what the queen prayed upon.”

“No, I do not.”

“Why, a wise grandson, no less. She blessed his progeny, as well, wishing that he may be kind and empathetic. This is well-known throughout the palace, did you really not know?”

“If I did, I must have forgotten. I was young, so it feels only natural,” Jongin shrugged, closing the buttons on his winter cape. Though, he knew he were only lying to himself. He knew very little about himself or his past, for no one had told him. What the handservant did not know became lost to time, and with his parents passing went all that they loved about him, and all that he meant. Finding his value would be his hardest fought battle.

They stood in silence. Jongin pondered his place in the universe. Kyungsoo focused on the burn in his legs to distract from the distraught in the others eyes.

“Aside from all that,” Jongin veered, “I have inquired about the outskirts. Other knights directed me to you. Why might that be?”

“I have been, Prince.” He sneezed, “And in being, I have witnessed true suffering on Earth. It is no place to tread lightly.”

“So I have heard. And yet, no one will wager to help them other than I. I would like for you to prepare a plan and a troupe to make an observational expedition. I hope to provide relief in the future, but I do not know the current state of their lifestyle, yet. Can you do this for me?”

“It is not a matter of can, only a matter of will.” Kyungsoo bunched his freezing fingers into the fabric of his pants, all the more aware of his punishment and loyalty, “But, I will do it. If, in fact, this is your wish.”

“Who else’s would it be?” Jongin boarded his horse, “Stand.”

Kyungsoo stood, noting that the 20 minutes had not passed, but also knowing the the prince would never force anyone to kneel for so long in the dead of winter. That was frostbite in waiting for even the warmest-blooded of men.

“When available, please send your plan to my messenger.”

“Of course, Prince.”

“And don’t make yourself a stranger. The winter solstice resumes and you are my protector, after all.”

“No more, and no less,” Kyungsoo bowed respectfully, “Farewell.”

Jongin nodded, smiling his usual authentic smile, “Farewell, my knight.”

“And, Prince Jongin?”

“…Yes?”

“Though I am in no place to tell you what to do, I believe that it is wisest to keep your abilities a secret for now.”

“I believe so, too.”

And so he rode off, leaving Kyungsoo to return to his blistering kneel when he galloped out of sight for the remaining 15 minutes. He could not forgo his mistake otherwise, his cheeks reddening and his spine faltering as he tried to focus on anything other than the unbearable cold.

The morning was crisp and fresh, a pale gray that was pleasing to the eye and somber to the soul. All was silent in the forest around this time, for what business did anyone have in a barren forest of frost? There were no wild berries to pick, nor any enclosures to play, and thusly, everyone was locked away with their loved ones. The only time Kyungsoo could recall anyone brushing through the forest on a cold winters day was upon the very start of the Last War. How vulnerable and weak the Hailmånish people were to the snow, giving into nature’s conquest, when the south did all but trample over it like a joke.

Kyungsoo remembered the Last War like a jarring light. It was a box he seldom opened, for it took him aback far too much. And yet, he can still smell iron in the frigid air, and he could still hear the melodious clash of Belic war cries and chants, and scarlet stained his minds vision like the sunsets imprint on dull eyes. Somewhere from within, he remembered one knight carrying a woman’s head. He did not know her, at least, he expected to have never known of her. But, when he rode by on his midnight black destrier, he knew exactly whom he had met. He did not approach him as he dashed atop his stallion, nor did he even offer him a glance. Kyungsoo was much too unimportant to his overall goal. Yet, though he was covered from head to toe in golden armor, leaving only his mouth truly exposed, one could not mistake the cardinal plumage and the magnificent blood-red cape. 

It was the Blasphemer, sword bared, in the flesh, leading a brigade toward the palace.

Kyungsoo remembers hiding until the snow no longer crunched and their horses whinnies faded into the distance before he ran to warn everyone. He also remembers the king and queen sending his personal army, and then mounting the people’s army. He does not remember fighting, however, for he protected their only son, rushing him to the outskirts to find amiable shelter and, hopefully, a boat to the west if all else was unsalvageable.

He remembers the war ending at a stalemate, two Hailmånish men lost for every Belic knight lost. A catastrophic loss to be listed off in schools for years to come. He remembers slain children with linked arms in the streets as he returned. He remembers fallen Hailmånish knights, swords still in hand, but heads not in tact, as they lined the large fountain at the towns square.

He remembered returning Jongin to his defeated father despite a narrow victory.

He remembered the Queen not being there.

He remembered quickly walking away to survey the damage as he was told, and thusly knowing that he could have done more. He could have done better. He was so young then, he could only imagine what he would have done now.

As such, he mourned with everyone else. He swore to protect the lives of the innocent at the expense of himself, and he promised the king that he would never let anything happen to Jongin. Not just for the sake of his life, but for the sake of future lives; for the sake of the kings’ mothers’ blessings – of Salrose’s blessing. Of Jongin’s prodigal part in maintaining the forever standing status of the peaceful, humble Hailmån.

As such, he found it hard to forgive himself. He would never be able to. And so, his usefulness to Jongin became his purpose, and he would sacrifice his life and limb to prevent the end of days.

__

~

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“Why, good morning Prince Jongin,” the messenger greeted as he shook his snow-covered boots in the hallway, “Up and about quite early, I see.”

“Early? What time is it?”

“A shy 9am, Prince.”

“How curious…” he quirked his eyebrows before straightening them back, “Have you any news for me, messenger?”

“Only your itinerary for the day, which is rather short.” He pulled a scroll from beneath his arm, “There is the winter solstice gathering this afternoon at 2. Simply tea for the nobles and royals and their personal knights – no Dutch/duchesses or common knights or villagers present. A summit to speak on a casual note, if you will, incomparable to last night. Er, to put it this way, each night is a bit more exclusive than the last. Tomorrow evening there will be a private feast for royalty on the shore-end of the palace, and so on and so forth. Much like this.”

“I see, I see. Well, I am rather hungry today. What is on the menu?”

“The handservant made your breakfast, so I am not entirely sure. However, you have company on this chilly morning.”

“Ah, might it be that she took time from her day to join me?”

“Oh, no, no – the Prince of Aetheria is joining you. In fact, I believe he’s already there, and has been for a bit of time.”

Jongin felt his lungs collapse, his throat close, and his heart beat one last time before he was sent into a fully-blown panic. What would he say? What would he do? Should he go in his horse-riding clothes or should he change into something nicer first? Before the messenger had a chance to bow, Jongin was rushing wordlessly and hurriedly to his bedroom, tossing his cape and boots aside to rifle through his plain, meticulously organized closet. He swapped his heavy pants and warm tunic for his white button-up, black tailored trousers, and a fringed off-white shawl for the freezing hallway. He could not help but call a once-over in the mirror – he should have gotten a haircut, perhaps even a hair tie would do, and yet he merely ran a hand through it, slipped his favorite silver accessory in, and was hurrying toward the royal dining hall.

Before turning into the area, he stood still and breathed, walking in to greet him pleasantly and politely even though his heart beat rhythms against his ribs.

“…Good morning, Sehun –_ Prince_ Sehun. It is good to see you again.”

Sehun turned from his seating to face Jongin, and it was not long before he was standing. Jongin had yet to take in the scenery, for he stared down at the wooden flooring, his hands held politely in front of him.

Sehun, socially competent and wise, therefore sensed the others tenseness. Today was different. He smelled like Hailmån – which was an odd contrast to the night prior, and yet he welcomed it blindly. A second passed before he was stepping closer, invading the nervous prince’s privacy and taking a heavily-ringed hand to his, thumbing over the soft skin before bringing it to his lips in a soft kiss.

“Good morning, my prince,” he murmured, dropping the prince’s hand and pulling a chair for him, “My apologies for arriving unannounced.”

“It – it is no problem, truly,” Jongin sat, “It is not often that I eat with company.”

Sehun adored him. Adored him so much that, even with his wit and slick talk, he was unable to fathom his next sentence without proper forethought. He noticed the small, engraved band clipped into his hair, the diamond studs in his ears, the way he fiddled with his fork, perhaps waiting for the older prince to begin eating. A shy, nervous, and awkward soul piloting a graceful vessel; so innocent and naïve, and thusly so easily preyed upon. Sehun gave grace in native Aetherian before shifting back to Jongin’s mother language.

Suffice to say, Jongin was taken aback and flushed with a surprised pink. When they had first met, Sehun knew not of Hailmån, let alone its language. Now, he spoke quite fluently, much more so than he expected, as though he had practiced every day, perfecting even his soft accents and hidden vowels to a satisfying competency with no trace of his sharp Aetherian accent to be heard of.

Jongin ate his handservants homemade breakfast, his usual favorite; a simple porridge with winter melon and hot tea, though he felt less hungry as Sehun ate the chef’s breakfast; rich and tasteful. It made him feel childish in front of the prince, another slash to his diminishing ego.

If only he knew that Sehun could not give a damn about his food or his dress or the way he sat. He was entranced upon the way he ate; how his lips slid against his fork, how he licked his spoon clean and flashed his tongue, how his cheek bulged cutely – everything brought memories of the night prior. In his mind, he pulled Jongin by the collar and pushed him to the ground, pulling his shirt apart as buttons rolled across the empty room. In reality, he sat still and ate, obsessively observing every little fidget and fuss that bothered Jongin.

“I have an interesting proposal for you.” He began, leaning his elbows on the table and clasping his hands beneath his chin, “That is, if you are willing.”

“Of course, what might it be?”

“Come stay in Aetheria with me.”

Jongin paused. There was only so much he could handle in one morning, only so much he could compromise with until he was falling apart at the seams and spilling outward. He began to stammer and stutter with no comprehensible word escaping him before Sehun hushed him and said,

“Not permanently, as I know this is not possible for you. This is no big proposal by any means, it is only to introduce you to my kingdom and my parents. I know that you wish for us to move slowly, yes? I found it fitting.”

“I am honored,” Jongin managed, setting his spoon down, “I- when?”

“Follow me home after the winter solstice. We can make the journey together.”

“I will consult my handservant. Until then, just know that I am hoping to accept your proposal.”

“Swell,” Sehun grinned, and it was seldom he smiled, so Jongin felt his stomach flutter, “I would like to treat you to a good time, if you will allow it.”

“Well, how could I decline?”

“I would give you everything beneath the sun if I could,” Sehun stood, wiping his hands on a white cloth, “I will be going now. I hope to be free enough to greet you again at 2.”

“Make yourself known, y-yes,” Jongin gulped, standing to offer a shaking hand, to which Sehun walked around the table, running his hand through Jongin’s hair before pulling his head back to kiss him. It was a sultry, passionate kiss, though it burned slow and moved sluggishly. Jongin admitted to enjoying the gentle buzz in his scalp and snaked his arms around the Aetherian prince’s broad back, who pulled him in closer by his empty belt loops before running a hand down his thigh and pulling his knee to his waist.  
Like a flash of lightning or a strike of thunder, Jongin was being pushed into the dining table, narrowly missing a half-empty glass of tea. Sehun’s hips met his and rolled forward wantonly. Jongin moaned out, his lips parting and his arms seeking purchase around Sehun’s neck. He brought his leg around Sehun in an attempt to pull him closer, their growing erections falling against restricting fabric. How they wished to be free of it, and it was as Jongin turned his cheek into the cold wood that Sehun told him of how much he so desperately wanted him through stifled moans and restrained, fake gentleness. Jongin fell for it all, as his hips twitched and his grip tightened. His eyes fluttered shut, the tender shuffling of eyelashes brushed against Sehun’s cheek and became yet another mannerism branded into his memory. He wondered, could he take him right here and now? 

“Why, you…” Jongin giggled softly, followed by a sharp inhale as Sehun rolled his hips down, “Was last night not enough to satiate you?”

“When it is you, I have never had enough.” 

And it was only when the footsteps of knights were heard in the distance that he begrudgingly pulled away.

Even so, he had the privilege of admiring the flustered and glazed over Jongin below him, splayed out with his cardigan slipping down his shoulders and his hair ruffled and stuck to his face. His chest heaved up and down while he sat himself up on the sturdy wood, wanting to scold the older prince. And yet, Sehun caressed his cheek and called him precious, and it were as though he were not capable of feeling anger or frustration. He preened into the touch, noticing how cold his hands were, before looking up at him. Those gray eyes spoke volumes unto how badly he wished to continue, and Jongin would be lying to say that he were not curious enough to toy with the idea. Yet, it was not the place nor the time, and they simply were not married yet to justify such debauchery on the dining table.

“What is this in your hair?” Sehun asked, fondling the small, silver adornment.

“A jewelry piece that I have had for a long time. I quite fancy it, to be honest. I know it is plain to you.”

“Nothing on you is plain,” Sehun scoffed.

He pulled away and Jongin stood, giving his complimentary bow.

“Do not bow to me.” He said, “What couple do you know that bows to each other.”

Jongin shuddered at the word. Couple. Though he were quite cold and proper, he knew when to resist just enough to make Jongin feel special, even if it were fleeting and frivolous and oh-so-shallow.

“I will see you soon, then,” Jongin ran his fingers down Sehun’s neck intimately, though with the self-conscious embarrassment of a virgin, “I will let you know by then.”

Sehun nodded before turning away to exit the dining hall. He had barely touched his food, and yet he had a generous fill on his love-interest, of which had been on his mind so long, only for him to have a few prudish encounters. That did not matter to him, however. Despite being increasingly impatient, he was willing to wait for the inevitable. For it was just that; bound to happen, and very soon.

He recounted the feeling of Jongin’s fingers against his skin. It sent prickles up and down his body like chills, and he embraced it like the purest pleasure he had ever felt. He knew not of the prince’s gift, and yet even if he did know, none of it would matter.

He was no longer smitten, just ambivalently obsessed. Though he was aware, he refused to admit to it.

Jongin sighed over the rest of his breakfast and found himself unable to eat. His hair tousled, a few buttons loose, he held his cheeks in his palms and just sighed, for he was incapable of doing anything else, and a blissful smile crept uncontrollably onto his lips. He shook and finished his tea, but it was not without a peculiar curiosity that he found himself both fond and fearful over the idea of sex. What it meant to him, what it could be, what he wanted it to be the very first time – they were all wildly different ideologies, though the elusive mystery of it all kept him hanging around it like moths to a flame. So euphoric and stressless he had become from such a simple, intimate embrace. How he longed for something more – though he was terrified of it actually ever happening. A contradictory dilemma; the dawn of all innocence fallen to its first time. All he had was time and time more to wait until it was all diminished to nothing. He wondered if he would miss it; he wondered if it would drip from his hands like honey, or if it would break and shatter in a dramatic explosion of glass and bone. He wondered if Sehun would embrace him tenderly, or if he would take everything he had to give.

Uncertainty and assuredness, nostalgic emptiness and an eager buzz – he felt them all at once in an avalanche upon fresh snow.

__

~

__

__  


That afternoon, Jongin greeted everyone with polite bows, carrying a delightfully warm cup of honey-chamomile tea as the sweet aroma of cream, cinnamon, and coffee wafted through the room. It was not often that Hailmån had access to coffee beans, yet they reserved it for visitors.

Jongin felt small amongst the crowd. They were all bejeweled by the constellations themselves, dripping unapologetically in their riches and adorned by fashions that Jongin had always seen, but never been accustomed to. It was not that the Hailmånish royalty did not have the money, rather, that they simply did not see the point. He may have been proud of his humble heritage, but he wondered how one might take such a plain man seriously in a room full of diamonds, fine silk, and premium leather. 

“Prince Jongin?”

He felt a solid voice behind him and turned to greet a certain Lady he remembered all too well, the Belic Lady of summer communion herself, unaccompanied by her Lord, but most certainly aside her knight. Jongin sighed kindly, ignoring the tall escort, and held out his hand for her to shake.

“Lady, good afternoon. It is great to see you again. Where is your husband?”

“He seems to have met a group of Aetherian gentleman, so they have taken a go around your magnificent palace,” she cleared her throat, “How have you been, if I may be bothersome?”

“Your politeness is never a bother, but I have been fine,” he smiled, “However, there is a question that I would like to ask of you.”

“Whatever might it be?”

Jongin smirked, “It is your emperors Elder knights. What is their history, I am quite curious.”

“They are fearsome, are they not?”

“Mm, very.”

“As they are to everyone,” the Belic Lady laughed, “I had always figured that their leader had a few screws loose – oh – but I am sorry about the war between our nations.”

“It is in the past, and it is the present that counts, isn’t it, Lady?”

“Very wise,” she nodded, flicking her wrist at Chanyeol, “I will go find my husband and tell him that you have arrived – if I ever find him, that is.”

“Surely, and thank you.”

“No, thank you, Prince,” she bowed.

It was enough for Jongin to take notice of the way Chanyeol stared at him as he turned to leave. It was not contempt, nor regret, nor disappointment, only a normal state. Much like one you would catch accidentally from a stranger on the street, and nothing more.

Jongin exhaled, adjusting the waist of his pants. He had no reason to worry over the knight, and yet he did every day.

Pardoning himself to no one, Jongin made his way down the halls to find the handservant. Many passers by were too busy viewing the art, fixtures, and gardens to notice his light steps. He had to know whether or not his trip to Aetheria would be possible – if it would even be responsible with the current state of the kingdom. Regardless, he found it almost necessary.

It was without thinking that he found himself running head first into dark vestments and swinging gold that he stopped to look up – only to see the wrathful emperor himself, whom of which did not so much as stumble upon impact.

“My deepest apologies,” Jongin bowed, “It appears that I was not paying attention to where I was going.”

“No matter,” the emperor held a hand up nonchalantly. Though they were both royalty, Jongin was always remind of his young title of ‘Prince’ and what little weight it carried around Kings and queens. They often treated Jongin like a nephew, but the southern emperor treated him like a true inferior; like a royal to a noble, a noble to a knight, or a knight to a peasant. 

It was only when he moved from his path that he noticed three of his knights standing on-guard with their hands upon the hilts of their swords. Ever-ready, ever-present, and never late. How eerie it was, he thought, that there was never a moment in which he was around the emperor that they were not watching and listening.

“Before you go,” the emperor spoke, his enchanting authority coolly stopping Jongin in his tracks, “Would you mind explaining this painting to me.”

Jongin turned his head, disoriented by his trip, to view a painting on the wall. It depicted a shadowy figure with burnt wings being cast down from the sky and into a fiery abyss. Buildings burned in the background and the world was set ablaze, and yet he smiled as he fell, hurdling toward an unknown destiny. Certainly, in being so peculiar and abstract, it was an Aetherian gift.

“It appears to be Lucifer being cast from heaven,” Jongin pondered naively, “I am not well-versed with this painting, sadly. I suppose one can interpret it in a lot of different ways, depending on their unique views.”

“That is the charm this painting pulls upon me,” Yi Fan said, crossing his arms and inhaling,

“Through your widespread trade you were filled with violence, and you sinned. So I drove you in disgrace from the mount of God, and I expelled you, guardian cherub, from among the fiery stones. 

Your heart became proud on account of your beauty, and you corrupted your wisdom because of your splendor. So I threw you to the earth; I made a spectacle of you before kings. 

By your many sins and dishonest trade you have desecrated your sanctuaries. So I made a fire come out from you, and it consumed you, and I reduced you to ashes on the ground in the sight of all who were watching. 

All the nations who knew you are appalled at you; you have come to a horrible end and will be no more. 

Tell me, Prince, what verse was this?”

“Ezekiel 16:19, emperor.”

“Precisely. And it is with these words that I must wonder: Lucifer had forsaken God, thusly, God must forgo Satan. And yet, he persists naturally within all of us and, no matter how hard we try to maintain our humanity, he lingers indefinitely to strike when we are weak, and to strike such that we buckle from the knees and dive headfirst into Hell. We lie, steal, kill, we are innately awful; and yet, God loves us. Could you love a heathen?”

“Most certainly not,” Jongin dared, “Though, I beg to differ when I say that I don’t believe that all of mankind is naturally succumbed to Satan. Born from sin, yes – but it is by Salvation that we are relieved of our sins and can enter the realm of Heaven. In our beliefs and subservience, generosity, and kindness, a benevolent God sees us as enough. We are loved, are we not?”

“Surely, young prince. And yet, Lucifer was once God’s favorite. ‘A God that shows no favoritism’, is that not a famous motto around this kingdom? Perhaps he no longer does. Though, Satan was once beautiful, once talented, once intelligent, once one step below God’s only true son.” Yi Fan turned to face Jongin, “Before Adam, he was the first to set sin upon the world. One could say that he doomed Adam and Eve, and thusly, all of humanity to suffer. Does that speak poorly upon God, upon Lucifer, or upon man?”

“I am not sure, but it is with first instinct that I must say Lucifer.”

“And it is upon intuition that I must say that such is a very innocent, Hailmånish answer, young prince.”

Yi Fan snapped at his knights and the position themselves to he left, right, and posterior.

“When you allow yourself to see the bigger picture, you may lose sight of the little details, but you become aware of the true forces that bend will and create Hell on Earth.” He took one last look at the painting, which had begun to feel irrelevant, “And yet he smiled because life is cyclical, and Hell is not the end of a journey for someone with so much power and so much time. Tell me, can you hear the Murmur of the Heavens?”

“Like my grandmother?” Jongin asked rhetorically, remembering Kyungsoo’s words, “No, I cannot.”

“What a shame. They say that it is both beautiful and haunting. I have also read a lot about Salrose, recently, for my studies. She is an marvelous leader, one that I do look up to. In saying that, I must apologize for my father – the Ancient King’s – actions. They do not reflect my beliefs.”

“And what are your beliefs?”

“My father, though I love him, destroyed to destroy. I raze evil to the ground for Belmesh. Any order that does not allow peace for my people is not welcome, and I hope to see Belmesh as a united land, much like your own. What I see here is nothing but harmony. So please, do not fear me, though it seems that most men here do.”

“I trust you, just as I am sure that you can trust me,” Jongin said proudly, “We are not our father’s mistakes-“

“Unless we continue them,” Yi Fan completed.

“I have been looking everywhere for you, Prince,” the handservant called, bowing to both royals, “I have a few itinerary items for you.”

“I see,” Jongin turned, extending a hand, “Farewell, Emperor.”

“Farewell.”

The handservant awaited his departure and pointed a stern finger, “Be careful of what you trust that emperor with.”

“It was merely an artful conversation,” Jongin said, “A bit dark and quite peculiar, but an innocent conversation nonetheless.”

“Even then, I was told that you were looking for me.”

“Ah, yes – the prince of Aetheria. He has invited me to his palace for a short, though indiscriminate, amount of time following the winter solstice. I wish to go, but I have my own reservations and question the responsibilities I leave behind if I were to go.”

“A week seems manageable, I suppose.”

“Then-“

“However, the journey itself is a week and a half by boat, and then the that same journey back plus the week you are gone – why, that’s nearly a month. Perhaps your councilmen will rule for you, but your people rely on your image for hope in these times. If you disappear after being such a common sight, they will surely notice. And, knowing the current political situation we are in, they will blame you for apathy that you do not possess. It is not an ideal situation.”

“…Understood,” Jongin exhaled, crossing his arms.

“Why not invite the prince over? He is here already, only staying in another accommodation. There isn’t much of a difference.”

“Though I figured you might already know, now is the best time to inform you that I am going on the prince’s proposal to meet his parents. We are not engaged by any means, but… the chances are high that we will soon.”

“The prince of Aetheria,” The handservant scoffed, her eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets, “Are you out of your mind? He would never give up his throne, let alone-“

“And yet he has.”

“What?” She asked, eyes wide and voice breathy in disbelief.

“Yes,” Jongin sighed, “He has agreed to become my secondary, in the compromise that I promise to accept him as my only suitor. It is… unfortunate, though I feel that it is ideal.”

“I cannot believe my ears! The proudest prince in all four regions is agreeing to become a secondary to Hailmån of all lands and you feel it is unfortunate? In what regard?”

“Well,” Jongin began, hiding his true reservations, “It seems a bit rushed, though in this current situation that is only necessary.”

“Do you love him?”

“I believe so.”

“Then That is all that should matter. It is a bonus that it is quite advantageous, however.”

“Did you have any itinerary items for me?”

“I just said that to have an excuse to remove the emperor.”

“You are dismissed.”

She bowed and left Jongin alone to mull over his thoughts. His handservant was quite prepared for this conversation, which led him to believe that she had expected it all along from the frequency of his letters. Though, he did question his ‘love’ for Sehun. Truthfully, he did not think he loved him, even with his limited knowledge of what love was ‘meant’ to be. However, she was right; this was an advantageous exchange.

It did not change the fact that Sehun treated Jongin like a 1st place trophy, like a body without a soul… Regardless, this was the best he could do for himself and his kingdom. He made well with making him blush, but did he make him happy? He felt foolish to have to ask himself such simple questions, yet they were necessary.

One sacrifice for another made his world turn clockwise.

__

~

__

__  


It would be over tea that Jongin would meet Baekhyun; a sultry and mischievous man hailing from Aetheria and certainly on the more boisterous side. If he could not speak, he would be nothing. If he did not exist, the spirit of Aetheria would not go on. So on and so forth, he became the spark every ‘party’ needed to cycle through its inevitable phases of hushed gossip and rowdy chatter directed toward no one in particular. A Hailmånish quartet played atop a carved marble perch, dancers made their rounds about the stage, and the nobles stood to make merry conversation while the royals sat in finely crafted leather chairs at the back of the room before a dainty tea table made of red oak and spotless glass.

An odd mix that this generation made. Typically, four kings and four queens would sit along a round table, and yet, now it became that there would be a lone prince, a queen and her son, and one solemn Emperor at one table to discuss the mayhems and victories of their nations and how they may compromise and make sacrifice to work in harmony – if not, synergy. Ironically, there was no better display of imbalance than who did and did not appear today.

And yet they did not make much conversation that Jongin could understand, so he made his way to the nobles while Sehun watched him with jealous eyes as he became all the more trapped in political discourse – the likes of which Jongin was far too unimportant to belong to. A marvelous beauty rumored by all, yes; but to be taken seriously meant to have prestige. Hailmån garnered a gentle respect, but not the fear of the south or the awe of the west.

The nobles were kind and almost overly respectful to the prince, especially those from outside of Hailmån. They often complimented him on his handsomeness, his height, his hair, his other various facial features that made everyone double over and sob their message to the lord, echoing boldly, ‘who is this and how may I have them for myself, God?’. The flirting still made him blush, despite him not being aware that they were flirting, and only that they were being kind with their words. It was hilarious to outsiders looking in, for he never seemed to be able to take a clue and run a yard with it. 

Baekhyun, though he sought not the romantic attention of the prince, was in pursuit of the title, ‘the one who made the impossible possible’, perhaps to make others jealous, perhaps in good fun, but all in the name of mischief and martyrdom.

“Good afternoon, prince,” Baekhyyn bower, catching the meandering prince by surprise.

“Good afternoon, nobleman,” Jongin greeter, accepting his bow, “How have you enjoyed the afternoon so far?”

“Splendidly, And I am as grateful to be here as I am to be in your company,” he noted the shy smile upon Jongin’s face, “I am Baekhyun, the Lord of Northern Aetheria, by the way.”

“Do tell me about the north and your estate, Lord Baekhyun.”

Baekhyun has many a thing to say on the topic – lords in Aetheria were knowledgeable and statistical, gifted with great memories and great conversational skills, though quite cunning and, sadly, quite manipulative in turn. Though this was often all in good fun, the sour returns from sensitive victims were difficult to mend.

Baekhyun was rather popular, both on his estate and otherwise. He had voluminous blonde hair and pale gray eyes, much like the Queen. Glitter danced behind them in the moonlight, and his smile was all but innocent. He dressed as decadently as a prince, draped in pearly-blue silks and a magnificently tailored long coat. He did forgo quite a bit of jewelry compared to his peers, but it made the silvery band on his ring finger stand out all the more.

Even as a profound talker, even Baekhyun grew tired of hearing himself speak. The north and his estate were all fine and well, but he must break his tiring curiosity.

“Aside from everything else, I am a good friend of the prince.”

“Truly?” Jongin stated excitedly.

“Oh, yes – dating back to our childhoods. The king was fond of my father and, as such, we were around each other often.”

“And as such, you have never failed to annoy me,” Sehun interrupted, garnering a soft bow from the Lord, “I see you have met Baekhyun.”

“He is lovely company,” Jongin laughed behind a gentle hand, “You two are friends, I take it?”

“A ‘friend’ is a bit of an overstatement.”

“You have always been a liar, Prince.”

“You dare call me a liar?”

Baekhyun cowered beneath Sehun’s piercing glare. Though, even between such angry tension, there was no real hate between them. Baekhyun prodded and Sehun pushed, and this was how they joked, moreover, Jongin took dull note of this and could not help the butterflies in his stomach. As time seemed to fly by, he seemed to feel so much more attached to the elder prince. He had not felt such affection ever, he wondered if he were growing sick from breakfast. Thusly, he could not help it when his smiling face daydreamed upon Sehun’s signature frown, and only shook himself out of it when the prince stared back.

“I would like to take a tour around the village. Care to join me?” Sehun asked, flinging his cape backward in readjustment.

“I would be delighted.”

Baekhyun took careful note of the soft giggle and the gentle blush in Jongin’s face. For someone with such amber-toned skin, blush was often hard to see, so much so that it was more of a sensation that you could see unfurl through the veins in his body, emanating off his skin in the smallest of mannerisms; his breathing quickened like his chest had swollen, he smiled almost too often, he could never look Sehun in the eyes for too long before he was darting away, his fingers toyed with his hair when it was perfectly in place and clasped coyly in front of him, otherwise.

Baekhyun also knew the prince well. He was a bit reserved, but also very dominant and proud. He allowed leeway for no one, not even his – dare he say ‘best’ – friend of so many years. And yet, he spoke the the prince softly after having known him so shortly. He bended to what the younger prince of an inferior kingdom wanted, and it was quite peculiar to Baekhyun.

He would not be a lord if he were not educated in the ways of observation – his own father would not allow it. 

His goals changed, his mind snapped, and he was now becoming of a new title.

‘The one who saw fate to its final destination.

_~_

Jongin brought Sehun to Hailmé, the closest village to the palace, one of the largest, and home to the town square. With the snow reaching greater heights and many people going out less and less, there was not much to see. A villager passed by every now and then to give a polite bow before hurrying away to make their preparations for the final blizzards of winter.

“And this here is the fountain your father gifted to us,” Jongin announced, halting, “Everyone loves it. We are quite grateful.”

“A symbol of friendship,” Sehun nodded, turning to Jongin, “When we marry, I will gift you a second castle.”

Jongin was both smitten and flustered. An entire castle? Moreover, when – not if – they were to marry? As usual he doubted himself, wondering if he had simply misinterpreted the prince. The last thing he wanted to do was to make a fool of himself – to suggest so much and to make Sehun uncomfortable. 

So full of surprises, Sehun caressed Jongin’s cheek and placed another palm on his lower back, pulling him closer to kiss him so smoothly – he was lucky to have pulled away when he did, as peasants began pouring in with word of the prince’s presence floating around. They did horribly at pretending to have somewhere to be, and even if it were no secret, Sehun did not care. He would kneel down and propose here and now if he had the ring, regardless of how shy and averse to attention Jongin was.

The kiss sent his body ablaze and his mind into a domestic, trembling mess. He smiled and giggled and resisted throwing himself at the prince like an overeager newlywed, for they were not even officially married, yet. 

It was all happening so soon that he wondered if it were even real, or if his only bout of happiness was a cruel dream, and he would wake up as desperate and disheveled as he had ever been.

Sehun basked in Jongin’s glow like a husband to his new wife – only he and a seldom few would notice the subtle change in his disposition; that this smile was absolutely bewitched for Sehun, and that it bubbled with the rosy undertones of eroticism and light-hearted romance. When he looked up at Sehun from fluttering and unintentionally suggestive eyelashes, he knew – he had roped in his most sought after item. Jongin was now his most prized possession. Meanwhile, Jongin was all the more oblivious – his naivety shined like a steady candle in the dark that Sehun navigated.

“I am so pleased,” Jongin grinned, so often that his cheeks began to ache, “Will you really marry me?”

“Nothing will stop me,” Sehun said, ignoring the passers by and their bows – their growing stares and how they bunched in numbers, “Come to Aetheria with me. I have kept the engagement ring this entire time. I will give it to you, and then we can wed in Hailmån.”

Jongin ignored the words of his handservant, ignored everything; he had become so high on affection that he no longer knew what to do with himself. He chased it – he chased this everlasting joy out of fear that he may never see it again if he did not, all subconsciously. Now, all he felt was elation for the moment, and the peasants that stopped to stare, though they knew not the reason, could read it off his face.

“Yes!” Jongin clapped his hands together, “We shall go together as soon as the solstice ends. I will have my things ready.”

Sehun, not one to smile often, grinned and chuckled, growing so fond of the way Jongin clamored on and on and on when excited.

“I have never seen you so happy, my prince.”

“I have never been so happy, Sehun,” he smiled fondly, “I shall let everyone know that I will be gone, and then we will make haste, and – oh – I am just so excited Sehun! Might I bring a gift for your parents? Perhaps I could-“

Sehun’s attention was drawn away by the ringing of bells, twice to be precise. Jongin followed his inattention and began his chatter as soon as the second bell rang, business as usual for the Sunday service. It no longer brought him anxiety and fear, for how could he feel such emotions when things finally began to fall into place.

And then, like the final blow to a mighty oak by the ax, the third bell rang. It’s clang seemed to ring longer than the others, though it might have just been the chills and nausea that made Jongin feel faint.

“Jongin, what bothers you?” Sehun asked, his face quickly falling.

The Aetherian looked around to see everyone bringing their hands to their mouths. Some cried out, but most stood immovably still and completely silent. Some bowed their heads and others stared empathetically at the prince. Though they often found themselves judgmental of the king, they could not bear the suffering of their prince, the one they thought of as their very own.

Sehun watched Jongin shatter in slow motion. It began as a gaze of disbelief, and then intense confusion, followed by immense sorrow. His face crumpled and he sniffled, and sniffling turned into heaving. Jongin fell to his knees as he cried violently, his only words were ‘why’, and they echoed throughout the square and ripped through the hearts of all as they knelt with him and bowed their heads for the inevitable loss, for no one should stand on higher ground than royalty.

Though he often pushed thoughts and memories of his father away so that they would hurt less when remembered, he grappled for them now; his hopes for a better future between himself and the king were now permanently dashed. Though, he blamed himself. Why did he forgo his father?

And then it had struck him – perhaps he was not the sacrifice. His father was. And by the odd ways of God, he had died for whatever plan was in motion. However, he was not and would never be sure, and that confusion choked him of air and crushed him like a ladybug trapped beneath a steely boot.

Sehun stood and stared for a while before kneeling to comfort him in what ways he could. It was only the warmth of his arms that he could provide.

It meant nothing. He cried and cried, sobbed to God and his angels - but he knew it would not change anything. 

The inevitable had happened.

Death was promised to everyone, avoided by no one, and the cruelest of misgivings to be brought to a soul that knew not where to go or why he must.

_~_

“Good evening, Knight.”

Kyungsoo jumped, holding his lantern up to the prince. His first words, so gently shocked with a hand raised to his mouth, were,

“I am sorry.”

This instantly brought Jongin to tears. These cries, though wordless, ripped through the knights humble cottage and across the winter woods with feverish energy. Jongin screamed, voice broken and tired, at what felt like nothing. He wondered if God were listening – if God had the ability to feel hated and remorseful.

Kyungsoo held him close, bringing his head to his chest and tenderly stroking his hair. The Prince bunched his fists in the cloth on his back, shaking with rage and misery. He would continue to cry for what felt like eternity for the both of them, until he slowly fell into a pitiful, pathetic weeping.

He dressed the wounds upon Kyungsoo’s knees from the blistering cold snow, and though Kyungsoo would decline him, he could not fight the Prince’s will. 

And so, Jongin calmed as he washed Kyungsoo with a damp cloth beneath the candlelight within that pleasant cottage, and for every time his tears fell upon Kyungsoo’s skin, it burned like the most stringent of acids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know what kinda annoys me? i feel like i spend so much time on this, but school makes everything happen so slowly. I can’t wait until winter break. if i didn’t care about my degree so much, i swear I’d update more often!  
speaking of updates, i just found my old ds and some pokémon games. i almost cried from nostalgia alsjahajsk


	10. CHAPTER X: Winter Solstice Pt. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> why must all that is good be so quickly devoured.

# 

Chapter X: Winter Solstice Part V

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Everything hurts. Nothing is fair. Life is negligible.

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~

The handservant knew Jongin well. Well enough to tell everyone at the early-evening gathering, the last day of winter solstice, to politely disregard the current events. The prince grieved solemnly, and despised being pitied. Not out of pride, but out of care for others. He would have wished for everyone to mourn his father, not for them to mourn his loss. It was not about him, so he thought.

So naturally, Sehun greeted the prince wordlessly and squeezed his hand before parting for his mother and handservant. Jongin was so sweetly smiling to his new fiancée, yet his face quickly fell flat. It was so energy intensive to pretend to be strong.

The last day was reserved for royals, yet everyone celebrated at home. It was the most formal and somber of the three days, in which incense were lit and prayer was led. Typically, the king of Hailmån would lead prayer but, Jongin, both uneducated in prayer tradition and defeated and devastated by the passing of his father could not take his place. Thusly, a palace pastor conducted the days holy scripture; an homage to what God had given Man in exchange for his only son.

Certain words rang bells of clarity within Jongin, but the pastor spoke of sacrifice – such was said:

_“Our father in Heaven, so generous and benevolent, may be perfect in every way, but that does not make him unfeeling. Even if we often regard emotions as imperfections, it is because we are human. We feel jealousy, envy, greed, and are occasionally insatiable, but God allowed us to feel so that we may also empathize, celebrate in joy, and love one another. _

_Within our God, the one who loves us so, is also the ability to feel sorrow – to grieve – just as we do. He weeps, much like we do. He sacrifices, much like we do. _

_And so, when humanity had appeared all but lost, he sacrificed his own son, Jesus Christ, so that we may find Salvation if we do choose to follow his light and accept his gift. But, it was not without death and brutality that we were allowed into Heaven amongst angels._

_It is here today that we must question: if God is not above anguish and despair, then are we so special as to feel entitled to permanent joy and everlasting happiness on Earth?_

_No, because life will always be sin. We are born into sin and we will die sinners, as is natural for the innate flaws we all inherent. But, what we choose to do, the good we may impart to our fellows here and beyond, the faith we place in God to be the best we can, is the means with which we will one day find everlasting hope. Long-lived love. Eternal elation._

_Thus, when you find yourself questioning the very nature of birth into despair, remember that these trials and tribulations are your proofs and balances to be told on your day of judgment.”_

It was the only moment he had paid thorough attention to. The rest of the sermon consisted of a persistence in staying awake and retaining an unwavering friendliness despite his own suffering. If it were not for the recent news and his nearby fiancée, he might have lost himself. He was sure he would have.

“How are you faring, prince?” The handservant asked, leaning closer from her seat in the pews.

“As well as I can make do with,” Jongin replies, his hands clasped politely in his lap, “Thank you for asking.”

“It is the least I can do.”

The handservant leaned back, but her worries burrowed deeper than death and loss.

She had spoken with the head nurse, who had taken her first break in the past month from the kings chamber. He had died while she was away. Though, she could only wish that her negligence was the cause of his death, for she walked back in after a few hours after midnight to eat when she came to find the room empty. After search upon search, and the insidious open window , it was presumed that he had committed suicide. He certainly wasn’t comatose, only catatonic. Thereby, it was believed that he had ended himself.

The handservant had fought and screamed at the councilmen.  
_  
‘How could you keep the truth from the prince?’_

_‘Who are you to decide what is for the best interest of individuals unconnected to you?’_

_‘Do you understand what it means to feel despaired and to not know where to begin to revive?’_

And yet, they did away with her as quickly as they could escort her out and slam the door in her face. The councilmen had decided: the prince will not be told of the reality of the situation. The funeral will not reveal the nonexistent body, for some excuse about awful sores and contagious leprosy. Rather, his death would be taken at face value, and the prince and peasants would do well to live a simple lie that, while partially false, would never hurt them to not know.

The handservant understood the nuances of partial truths and how they can be utilized to maintain order. She did not, however, agree with lies to the first degree. She did not know for sure what had happened. No one did. However, they would pretend that he had died in his sleep, as though Nothing were out of the ordinary.

_‘And so we must ask, what are we willing to sacrifice to make the world a better place?’_

Kyungsoo listened dutifully from his spot nearby the door. He still could not bring himself to approach the prince, especially not after what had happened. He had wished to hold him and tell him that all was okay, as he had once done for the young knights in his care, separated permanently from their families; him being their proxy honorary father. And yet, he would never break such an impenetrable barrier. It was for the best. 

_‘Could we remove all that we are to maintain existential balance?’_

Chanyeol, standing on the outside of the door in waiting for his lord and lady, tapped his foot as he listened in on the service. And yet, he could not focus. He could not have cared less. If he did not smell so strongly of musk and bark, he would reek of retribution and anger. Frustration and jealousy. Lust and revenge.

_Disgusting._

_‘For the lord himself gave us all that he had ever loved and watched him, crucified, on our mortal plane. Selfless, graceful, and solemn – he wept for us when we sinned. Dirty and untamed, we took his tears and we mocked them. Even then, he protected us from Satan and his final plans.”_

The head nurse sat in her quarters, alone as usual with no family left, her head in her hands as she sobbed. Seated in a modest wooden chair before a pathetic fireplace, she questioned her purpose. She fought with herself; a classic display of a woman against all she had ever known – what was she if she were not the miracle of Earth. What was she now after having gone for a meal to come back to hours upon hours of fighting and struggling wasted? And now, she had let everyone down. She could not even satiate herself upon their prosecution, for they would never know the real truth. She was disturbed to know that the kings course lay rotting somewhere, and it was all her fault.

_‘And Satan? Oh – he is but a serpentine devil. He cares not for even himself. He cares not for the Hell he calls home. He is ruthless, overbearing, an embodiment of chaos, the epitome of all things evil. He destroys for fun, he spited God for once being perfect, and now being the horrendous evil that we all despise now.’_

The Queen of Aetheria also listened intently. However, her gaze once drifted to the prince, whose head was bowed modestly. She felt true empathy, pity, sorrow… she cared for him like she would her own son. She was glad to have him for her own boy. Her motherly instinct told her to coddle him and let him cry in her arms. Royal Law told her to keep her distance, of which she did.

_‘Just as God resides in all of us, so does Satan. He festers and grows as we lose faith, and he diminishes and dies as we commit ourselves to the one true truth.’_

Sehun was deathly in love. Sinfully distraught.

_‘And so, Salvation is our one true justice. Our single modicum to life beyond life.’_

Jongin, himself, could barely feel his own hands. He shook with some sickness, though it was not physical. 

_‘And be aware, Satan is behind you now. He is pointing a knife at your back, hoping you will fall backward. Fall forward into God’s open arms, for the alternative is a life of remorse, pain, and calamity.’_

The pastor paused,_ ‘If the end of always coming, allow the end to be welcomed happily, as you know where you will go when you die.’_

And then, of course, they were all so blissfully ignorant of the beauty before them scattering in the wind like fallen foliage on a gust of wind.

_‘May God be with you on your final day.’_

And it was when the doors were bust down and the windows crashed like a cacophony of cymbals that the world of warmth and candlelit serenity became bright and flooded with frigid cold and forgotten, blinding brightness. 

It was then that flashes of red flew through the air on the backs of knights of silvery armor and dark hair and the finest of swords – so clean despite their reputation.

It was then that gold flashed in the peripheries of all and then centered itself as the focus of the room; so daringly brave as to demand without words. 

It was then that the scramble was unlike anything any of these present nations of the west and east had ever seen. They all scrambled like chickens from coyote; like lambs from wolves – so unashamedly pitiful and, to the highest knights of the south, nearly disgusting in the effortless execution of their pride and valor. They tripped and fell over each other, ripping their garments and hurting one another to flee, spilling and dripping blood, dismembered and sorry were those that were too close to have ran.

It was then that the prince was captured, and the late kings head was displayed for everyone to see – held high in the air and then rolled down the pews like a tumbleweed; so scarring and yet so forgettable in the circumstances.

And now, it would be heard by all;

Hailman had fallen, and their beloved prince, their last royalty, had been captured.

_-To Be Continued-_

_Authors note: well, so part one is done. When I told you that this would be long and slow, I really wasn’t lying. I crunched some numbers (which means that I made a dummy guess), and just by what I’ve written so far that needs to be edited, and just by how much more needs to be written to complete the story, we’re going above 150,000 words, bb. Not much, but not too little, either._

_Don’t expect the completion of part two until December. I hate to say it bc I love shipping these out, but... i have so little time :( ALSO, i really want to write raunchy porn, so there’ll be more of that in part two 🗣_

_With that being said, I would like to gift you gentle spoilers:_

_You will learn a bit more about the elusive northern kingdom. New characters. the Gilic Trade. Hell on Earth + the River of Fire. Prison & Torture. Another death. Kyungsoo’s favorite. The Epic of Man morphs. You will also get to know a bit about the Hellsman himself. _

_And, most importantly:_

_ _Joaquin._ _

_

I hope you are satiated and ready for more.Thx for sticking around, you keep me motivated <3

(P.s: please give me prompts. I’m dehydrated as hell and I need something to write other than this lmao)  
_


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